Remember Me, Remember You
by sophie-the-duchess
Summary: When the Frankish princesses Anna and Elsa are stolen away to the North by Norsemen, they must each adapt to survive in such a brutish, unforgiving land, so far from home. (Dark!Viking AU with violent/sexual themes, Kristanna/Helsa)
1. Chapter 1

_You got the will of a wild_

 _A wild bird_

 _You got the faith of a child_

 _Before the world gets in_

 _The Killers, "Some Kind Of Love"_

–

 _Faster. I have to go faster._

Her parents were gone. Her sister was gone. The castle had been taken as well, although it had been no easy feat for the armored brutes who had crossed the North Sea to lay siege to her kingdom. The men under her father's employ, as well as those who followed his leadership of their own volition, had put up a damn good fight to protect their home. Anna muttered a prayer under her breath for those who had fallen.

 _Faster. I have to go faster._

The princess had been awakened from a dead sleep by Gerda, her handmaiden's mother and the Queen's personal advisor, who informed her in hushed, panicked tones that Northern invaders had come to the capitol to attack the Franks.

"This far inland?" Anna had stammered in disbelief, shocked; the Northerners normally raided coastal settlements. "Are you sure?"

The elderly woman had ushered her through the hallowed halls of the palace and out into the April night; they made it to the stables, undetected, and Gerda threw a cloak over the trembling girl's shoulders. Although the princess' shift was thin, the Spring air was warm– and filled with the distant sounds of screams and clanking metal that caused icy cold fear to course through Anna's body.

When Anna had insisted that she stay and fight alongside her family, instead of running away like a coward, Gerda had slapped her clear across the face.

"Stupid girl," she spat, but her voice quavered with concern, betraying her callous words. "Go westward until you reach Tournai. You'll be safe there. And keep your eyes straight ahead!"

Reluctantly, Anna mounted her steed and started off towards the West.

 _Faster. Go faster._

Anna squeezed the equine's side with her thighs as she rode west, tighter, faster, urging her horse onward. Her braid came undone from the force of the ride, her ginger curls flapping out behind her like the feathers of a flying bird, her cloak waving like a war banner. The greenery on either side passed in a blur; the bitter smell of smoke tainted the air, stinging the inside of her nostrils. Although she had already been riding for a quarter-hour or more, a red glow was still visible on the Northern horizon to her right, and hellish sounds continued to be heard.

She wasn't out of danger yet.

The white-haired beast bid as its mistress commanded when she clamped her legs even tighter and cried out to go faster, racing through the woods at a breakneck speed, quicker than lightning.

Then, a dull roar steadily rose up from behind the princess as she rode; first the sound of another set of hooves, then a man's voice, shouting something in a guttural tongue so harsh that it made Anna wince. She gripped her horse's mane until the blood drained from her knuckles.

 _Faster._

She was almost to the edge of the forest, less than a hundred paces away. Her heart hammered between her ears. If she could only go faster, she could get there in time to find a place to hide…

Something metallic whizzed past her head, landing in a nearby tree. Despite Gerda's warning about keeping her eyes forward, Anna dared a glance over her shoulder, to steal a look at her pursuer; he was a lanky man, with a scraggly red beard and piercing green eyes illuminated by the light of the full moon that reflected off of his helmet. Anna realized that he was riding on the back of her elder sister's own dove gray mare– her heart breaking for Gerda at the realization that the older woman may not have been spared in the taking of the beast– and he was catching up to her.

He snarled something menacing that Anna didn't understand, but she turned her eyes straight ahead again in time to see a hunter's shack come into view at the edge of the forest, where the trees met the plain.

Something heavy collided with the side of Anna's horse, knocking the beast off-kilter and sending both Anna and animal tumbling to the dirt. A sharp, stabbing pain arrowed through the princess' head and her vision darkened, but she gritted her teeth and stumbled to her feet, making her way as quickly as she could to the leanto at the end of the woods, the hem of her shift catching on underbrush as she went. Behind her she could hear her pursuer dismount his own horse and stalk towards her.

 _I have to go faster._

Huffing and crying all the way, Anna made it to the shack and let out a sob when she realized that the shack was bare, void of any possible weapons or means with which to defend herself. Thinking quickly, Anna scrambled towards a pile of hay at the back of the small room, planning to try to hide, but before she could dive beneath it a hand was fisting painfully in her hair and yanking her backwards.

"Let me go!" Anna shrieked, grabbing at her own locks in a desperate bid to ease the pain. "Get your hands off of me!"

The brutish man behind her only laughed and snickered something in his native tongue; Anna had an inclination of the meaning behind the words by the threat of his tone. One hand wound tighter in her hair while the other moved to her stomach, fingers working to bunch the fabric of her ivory shift upward and brushing grotesquely over her hip.

" _Ert þú búin (Are you ready)?_ "

Bile rose in Anna's throat; she would not let this foreign invader take her virtue by force in her own land– not in this life nor the next. She kicked her foot back and up, and felt her heel make contact with something soft. The Northerner groaned and cursed, pulling on Anna's hair so strongly that she yelped and her eyes welled with tears; he pushed her face to the back wall of the leanto and her head throbbed with fresh pain, still smarting from her fall. His other hand moved from her navel to draw the sword at his waist.

" _Ek man vega þik eins ok svín (I will slay you like a pig),_ " he hissed in her ear.

Another man's voice sounded in the hut then, the deep timbre of it booming off of the poorly-built walls, shaking the room. The man holding Anna hostage addressed the newcomer.

" _Fífl (Fool)!_ " he spat. Distracted, his hold on Anna's hair loosened ever so slightly.

He uttered an additional threatening phrase that caused the newcomer to draw his sword, evident by the sound of metal sliding on metal from behind Anna as it slid from a sheath. In an instant, Anna was freed as the man who had pursued her lunged for the other man. The princess turned in time to see the other warrior– a towering, burly man with blond locs, dressed in leather armor and reindeer furs– deflect the smaller man easily. He tumbled to the ground, losing his helmet in the process, revealing a head of russet-colored hair and a pointed nose. Blood began to seep from the fallen man's side, blossoming outward from where he'd been sliced by the burly man's blade.

The golden-haired man shouted something in the _Víkingr_ language that seemed to offend the russet-headed warrior, who shouted back with equal vigor from his spot on the floor before retrieving his sword and jumping to his feet. He seemed to pause, as though considering whether or not another attempt at attacking the larger man would be worth his while, before sheathing his sword and muttering a curse under his breath.

" _Hvar er hjálmr minn (Where is my helmet)?_ "

The blond Viking scooped the other man's helmet from the floor and held it out to him, clearly not amused. The redhead glared back at Anna and moved towards the front of the shack, snatching his outstretched helmet and storming out without another word, leaving the Frankish princess alone with the Viking who had rescued her.

But was "rescued" the correct word?

 _Did he save me?_

 _Should I thank him?_

 _What if he simply plans on taking me for himself?_

The man took a step forward and Anna flinched; when she recovered from the sudden movement, she dared to look up into his face. Even in the dark, she could see that he was handsome, with deep amber eyes and a large, shapely nose. He appeared young– maybe only a few years older than Anna herself– despite the shadows of lines that had begun to form on his forehead. His thin mouth, framed by a short, reddish beard, seemed to be frowning at her; his eyes flickered with something akin to recognition upon seeing her face and he recoiled slightly.

" _Man ek þik (I remember you)._ " His gravelly voice was soft.

"What?" Anna felt the hot tears that threatened to resurface creep along her lashline. "I don't know what that means."

The man grunted; to Anna, it sounded like a _harrumph_.

" _Mun þú mik (Remember me),_ " came his response. Although Anna couldn't decipher the meaning, she could detect the finality of the words in his tone.

The man turned as if to leave her, but before he could take a step he was halted in his tracks by the commotion of an approaching horde from the forest beyond the shack. His face scrunched in disdain, and when he turned to look at Anna again she could pick up on the regret in his eyes.

" _Fyrirgef mik (Forgive me)._ "

"I told you, I don't under– _ah!_ "

In one swift movement, he lifted her up as easily as one might a small child and slung her over his back like a sack of potatoes. His strong arm hooked around her legs, holding her tightly to him, as he marched outside to face his fellow Vikings; Anna found that he was surprisingly warm, but the fact did little to deter her heart from hammering like a caged bird against her breast.

She was left facing the shack from atop his shoulder when he trudged outside, her long auburn hair dangling in her face as he shouted something that elicited a round of cheers and _halloos_ from the crowd; the men banged their swords against their shields in a nightmarish symphony that caused Anna's head to throb even more painfully.

Her parents were gone.

Her sister was gone.

The castle had been taken.

The city of Aachen, capital of the Kingdom of Francia, had fallen.

And now Anna, the beloved daughter of King Agnarr I, was to be a Northern savage's prize. His concubine. His whore.

The ache in Anna's skull reached a breaking point, and, overwhelmed with emotion, the princess slipped into the dark bliss of unconsciousness.

–

The elder daughter of Agnarr I, King of the Franks, slunk along the castle wall, sheathed in darkness. Her telltale silver hair was concealed by the hood of her cape, so as not to be visible by the light of the moon. She did her damnedest to steady her breathing, focused all of her will into it, to be as silent as possible; whenever a twig or dry leaf snapped underfoot as she went along, she winced and froze in her tracks, making sure no one was around before continuing onward. In the distance, she could still hear the tragic, pleading screams of her people.

The horrendous sounds wrenched at Elsa's heart. She didn't want to listen, but she knew that she must; should she succeed in reaching the tunnel beneath the castle, she and she alone would have to be the one to remember them– to tell the story of what had happened to Aachen, the capital city of the Frankish kingdom– on the night it was plundered and reduced to ashes.

 _I must be strong._

She slunk as close to the stone wall as possible, pressing herself back against it as though– if she tried hard enough– she could melt into it, become one with it, disappear from this cursed world.

It was then, when she rounded the next corner, that she saw him; one of _them,_ a Norseman, slumped lifelessly against the wall, the upturned palm of his hand smeared with bright scarlet blood. Something in his other hand glinted in the moonlight; Elsa recognized it immediately as the hilt of a sword.

A sword she could use to protect herself.

Although she had never held a sword in her life, it would be better than nothing. Crouching forward, Elsa approached the man as silently as possible. By all accounts, he appeared dead; no visible breath ghosted from between his parted lips, and his skin had a sickly, green pallor to it. Upon closer inspection, Elsa could see the deep, damp gash that ran the length of his side. He must have lost a fight and thereby lost his life.

She almost felt sympathy for the man: he looked young, not much older than Elsa herself. The color of his hair reminded the princess of her sister, although his was a starker, redder shade of auburn, like rusted iron, the fire of it visible even in the darkness of night. But unlike Anna, this young man was one of _them_.

The enemy.

Despite the fact, Elsa found herself pitying the young warrior; violence may have been all he'd ever known. Perhaps he had never asked for this life, just as Elsa had never asked for her own. Two victims of their own cruel, respective fates, and– in an odd way– that made them kindred spirits.

The Frankish princess shook her head to straighten her thoughts.

 _The sword._

It felt wrong to rob a corpse, but she could use it. Plus, a sword was of no use to a dead man, and so Elsa figured she should take it.

However, when she reached a hand out and tentatively grasped the handle, the man gasped to life and grabbed Elsa's wrist in his vice-like grip. His bright green eyes bore into hers with an intensity that shot straight to Elsa's toes, filling her with dread.

" _Svá vel (Please),_ " he rasped.


	2. Chapter 2

_Into the greater unknown  
Where sea and sky  
With grace collide_

 _To wash on the shores that we own  
They bring to life  
The brothers' pride_

 _The Last Bison, "Bad Country"_

–

Against Elsa's better judgement, and despite Lord Kai's previous warnings about the secret tunnel beneath the castle not being a viable nor safe route for escape, the princess saw no other option but to retreat to it now, dragging the wounded Northerner with her.

Perhaps it was the Christian principles that had been instilled in her since birth, but her conscience wouldn't allow her to leave him to die– even though he was the enemy.

The young warrior coughed and sputtered when Elsa had at last propped him against the wall of the tunnel that had been preemptively lit with torchlight. A fine sheen of perspiration had broken out over her skin from the effort of pulling his weight, and she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand before she inspected the Viking's side; it was a shallow gash, but deep enough to do some damage. Whoever inflicted it on him must not have had the intention to kill him.

Seeing no other option with which to bandage his wound, Elsa pulled a small, steel dagger from her breast and began to cut and slice at the hem of her blue gown, tearing the fine fabric into strips. The redheaded man glared at her with a look that the Frankish princess could only interpret as a mix between hatred and confusion.

"I'm going to help you," Elsa explained as she worked, not sure if he could even understand her. He mumbled something incoherent under his breath in response and huffed.

Elsa's trembling hands moved to the bottom of his blood-soaked tunic and paused; when she dared to look up at the wounded man before her, she realized that his clear green eyes were watching her every move intently, but not in a way that indicated that he was distrustful of her. He almost seemed… in _awe_ of her.

He glanced up to meet Elsa's gaze, and an unspoken understanding passed between them.

As though his tunic were made of glass that would shatter at the slightest touch, Elsa curled her fingers beneath the hem and pulled upward delicately, revealing the smooth, muscled expanse of his stomach; her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of it. Blood continued to ooze from his side, albeit more slowly than it had been, which was a good sign, although she wished she had some ale or wine to wash out the gash to avoid infection– and perhaps even a drink for herself to steady her nerves.

"You're going to be alright," Elsa breathed. Whether the statement was more to convince herself or the Viking, she wasn't sure.

Finding her courage to commence the task at hand, she moved the strips of fabric around and behind his torso, bringing the ends forward to knot them just above his navel, tying the bandaging in place, repeating the process for each strip. Her knuckles brushed over his skin with each movement; despite his blood loss and dire appearance, Elsa found that he was surprisingly hot against her own cool skin.

When at last she had finished dressing his wound, she tilted her face back up to his only to find that he had leaned closer without her noticing, his lips mere inches from her own. He was close enough to kiss. The tension in the space between them became palpable, pulsing.

" _Þakka fyrir (Thank you)._ "

His hot, moist breath ghosted over her face and neck and Elsa shuddered, feeling warm despite the chilliness of the subterranean earth surrounding them.

Suddenly, a dark shadow fell over the pair and a menacing laugh boomed from the other end of the tunnel.

They were no longer alone.

–

Anna awoke on a ship.

She tried to move, but found herself tied to a mass of heaving, snivelling girls, many of them looking much worse for wear than Anna was sure she did. The sound of a young woman crying for help from somewhere near the back of the longboat drifted through the air, over the sound of the waves and the flap of the sail on the ocean breeze, but Anna dared not listen any closer; as much as she wanted to help, she couldn't move if she tried.

Turning her head, Anna could see that they were surrounded by leagues of open water on every side. The sky was gray with pre-dawn as the ship cut through the fog, cresting easily over the water that lapped at its hull, rocking it as gently as a mother rocks her babe. A few Vikings sat huddled on benches nearby, but the blond man who had taken her was not among them.

She scanned the ship's occupants with her eyes in a futile attempt to find her sister, but she saw no one whom she recognized; perhaps Elsa was on another ship. Perhaps she had escaped. Perhaps she was still back in Francia. Perhaps she was dead. Some of the girls had their heads down, their faces bloodied and hair matted with dirt; others looked to the sky, eyes glassy and lifeless, the light having been snuffed from them by some horrific act. They'd lost their instincts of self-preservation, their wills to go on living; they were beaten and broken, like horses or beasts of burden.

Sighing from between dry and cracked lips, Anna turned her head to the sky, just in time to see the snow that had begun to fall.

 _That's odd,_ she thought. _It shouldn't be snowing this late in Spring._

The crisp, white snowflakes fluttered through the air like tiny butterflies, melting when they landed on Anna's forehead and cheeks. She closed her eyes, welcoming the cold of the snow on her flushed skin; despite the many holes in her tattered and torn shift, she felt feverish.

For the thousandth time, she hoped and prayed to all of the gods she knew of that her sister was alright.

–

Elsa watched with wide, wary eyes as the large Viking who had taken her as his prisoner conversed and drank with a group of his men near the front of the longboat.

After being discovered in the tunnel, the leader of the small band of six men– or rather, the man she presumed to be the leader, due to his heavyset stature and many scars– had yanked Elsa to her feet and bound her wrists in front of her. As a woman, she had been powerless to stop him or fight back, and she felt the tears prick at her lashes even now just thinking of her helplessness in the face of danger. She should have kicked, should have gone out screaming and thrashing with all of her might, should have tried _something_. It shamed her to know how weak and cowardly she truly was. She wished that she could be as brave as her sister– her sister who could very well be dead at this moment as a result of her bravery and brashness.

The wounded, russet-haired Viking had argued back and forth with the men for some time as they trudged out of the tunnel and headed towards their horses, but his words were dismissed by the larger men with laughs and insults. They had mounted their horses and ridden north at a leisurely pace, with Elsa forced to walk, dragged behind her captor's horse by the cord of her bindings like a dog. The wounded Viking rode along on his own beast behind her, but she refused to look back at him.

They pulled her through the burning city in a sick, perverse parade, forcing Elsa to take in the destruction that had befallen her home; when she had finally collapsed to her knees from exhaustion outside of the town boundary, weeping, the soles of her bare feet blistered and bleeding, the leader stopped the procession to hoist her up onto his horse, cocooning her against his chest like a child.

Exhausted, and instinctively comforted by the warmth of his body and the rocking of the horse as it trotted northward, Elsa fell asleep.

When she awoke, she found herself tied to the mast pole of a narrow, open boat that bobbed atop what she presumed to be the North Sea. The sky was still dark and a fog had begun to roll in, enveloping the occupants of the ship in a cloudy mist. But even through the mist, she could see _him;_ the wounded Viking from the tunnel, watching Elsa from across the ship with haunted eyes. They seemed to be asking her something; perhaps wondering why she had saved him, why she had bothered to show him any shred of kindness and compassion at the expense of her own freedom.

Elsa wasn't quite sure why herself. If she had left the young man to die, she may have very well been able to escape and would be free at this moment, instead of being held as some Northern savage's prisoner.

The captive princess bowed her face downward and squeezed her eyes shut, as if by doing so she could drown out the sounds of the cackling Norsemen and the spray of the seawater that coated her lips and hair in salt, but from behind her eyelids she could still see the harrowing green eyes set in a gaunt and pale face that continued to burn a hole into the top of her head.

A light snow began to fall; when Elsa opened her eyes, she saw the ice that crawled outward on the deck beneath her feet, running up the length of the post against her back. All conversations had ceased and the air had become eerily silent, and as Elsa followed the upward gazes of the men around her, she realized that the sail at the top of the mast behind her had been frozen solid.

–

None of the men had yet to touch her.

One by one, most of the other girls were dragged to the back of the ship to be taken as seawives.

But not Anna.

Perhaps she was too valuable as a hostage. Or perhaps she was intended to be a tribute, and was going to be sacrificed to the Pagan gods in some grotesque, abhorrent ritual. Or perhaps she looked sickly; she surely felt as sick as a dog on the sea.

Perhaps she simply wasn't desirable to the Norsemen. Many of the other women from Francia had raven hair and milky skin, whereas Anna's hair was red-gold, and her skin pink and freckled. Even her elder sister was considered a rare beauty in her home country, with pale hair and even paler skin, akin to Oriental porcelain.

Anna tipped her chin downward to peek at her flattened chest and lithe, boyish body; although she was already a maiden of seventeen, she had yet to fill out into the voluptuous fullness of a woman's body. Perhaps she never would.

Not that she was complaining about her lack of beauty now, if it kept her virtue from being taken against her will.

Anna's eyes trailed to an older Viking man with silvery hair sleeping in an upright position on the bench across from her, his bulging arms crossed over his barreled chest and head lolled to the side; the leathery skin that was visible from the breaks in his rough-hewn clothing was inked all over with faded blue runes that were meaningless to the princess, but may have been meant to be seen as intimidating.

Anna would not be so easily frightened as to be afraid of some pictures on skin.

Feeling brave, Anna reached out with her unbound foot and kicked him in the shin as hard as she could. The man snorted awake, startled.

"Hey," she whispered, annoyance creeping into her voice. "When are we going to get to… wherever we're going?"

The Viking growled something unintelligible in her direction before falling back asleep.

"Please, don't do that," came a girl's trembling, broken voice from beside Anna. "Please."

The princess nodded; she understood the potential repercussions of her brashness. They would try to break her, just as they had broken the others, and so Anna dared not to wake him again; she would not give him the opportunity.

But Anna was resolute: she would _never_ allow _any_ man to break her. She would fight until her last breath.


	3. Chapter 3

_Little sparrow, little sparrow_

 _Precious, fragile, little thing_

 _Little sparrow, little sparrow_

 _Fly so high and feel no pain_

 _Josienne Clarke and Ben Walker, "Little Sparrow"_

–

After an uncountable number of days at sea, the ship arrived with a jolt as it slid up the beach, eliciting a round of cheers from both seafarers and onlookers alike.

Before Anna could catch her bearings and stretch her sore limbs, she was shoved along with the other girls who'd survived the journey across the sea, and made to stumble down a gangplank and onto the beach below.

A fleet of other longboats had arrived as well, and when Anna stole a glance back over her shoulder she could see more on the distant horizon. There must've been dozens of them in total, if not hundreds.

The throng of people on the beach was simultaneously celebratory and rancorous, and more than one set of hands grabbed at Anna as she was shuffled along by a faceless Norseman. The foreign shouts reached a terrifying fever pitch, until it was a deafening roar that drowned out Anna's own thoughts. One woman even spat at her, and she physically recoiled backwards into her captor, only to be pushed forward so roughly that she tripped over her own feet and fell on her hands, still bound with rope.

The Frankish princess clenched her fists in the dirt, willing herself to be strong.

 _Do not cry in front of them. Do not show any weakness._

With her head held high, Anna rose to her feet. Ahead of her was a long procession of captives, flanked on either side by screeching Northerners. Anna steeled her will and continued marching forward; she knew that any attempt at escaping now would be futile.

A towering man burst forth suddenly, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea parting for Moses. When Anna glanced up, she recognized the blond Viking man and her heart leapt into her throat.

His brown eyes flickered to Anna briefly, before he turned to the man behind her and said something in the Norse language. Her captor nodded, agreeing with whatever the blond man had said, before relinquishing his hold on her shoulders and taking a step back. Confused, Anna looked to the blond Viking.

"Am I going with you?" she asked, willing her voice to be still. "Or am I free to go?"

 _Why would they bring me all the way here just to let me go now?_

He opened his mouth to give her an answer, when an unexpected shout from the crowd echoed through the air, cutting him off and silencing the chatter of the crowd.

" _Vargr (Thief)!_ "

The russet-haired Viking from the shack back in Francia stepped forward, shouting angrily and banging his sword against his shield. He repeated the word _vargr_ a few more times, interspersed with the guttural syllables of his native language. A murmur rippled through the group of onlookers.

The blond man initially looked amused, but as the russet-haired Viking continued to rile up the crowd with shouts and howls, his face darkened.

" _Hvat segir þú (What say you)?_ " the larger man questioned the smaller.

" _Gór mik eigi (Don't disrespect me),_ " the redhead spat, drawing his sword. " _Heimskt troll (Stupid troll)!_ "

The burlier Viking drew his own blade in turn, spitting on the ground.

The russet-haired warrior lunged forward. " _Krákarnir munu hafa þik (The ravens will have you)!_ "

Anna scuttled backwards as soon as the first contact of metal-on-metal rang out, falling back into the circle of spectators. Shouts of " _Veg hann (Kill him)!_ " and " _Dey (Die)!_ " roared from the crowd as the two men dueled each other in the center of the pit. The smaller man was knocked to his rump by a particularly heavy blow, much to the excitement of their audience.

The blond man laughed. " _Þú berð eins ok lítil píka (You fight like a little bitch)!_ "

Enraged, his opponent lunged forward once more, jabbing at him with the point of his sword with a newfound fury; he easily dodged the attempted strikes, bringing his own sword down to slash across the redhead's thigh.

A larger Viking– even taller and wider than the blond– came forward then, his deep voice bellowing over the noise. The two combatants paused, albeit reluctantly, at the behest of the newcomer. Anna assumed he must be some sort of leader; perhaps he was the chieftain. He somewhat resembled the redheaded Viking in his older features, although his green eyes were more gray, like the color of a stormy sea, and his own red hair was a darker shade of chestnut. His clothing and adornments looked more regal than anyone else's. Tattoos covered his arms and legs and the parts of his face not covered by his beard were riddled with scars, with a rather large white one crossing over his left eye, the iris of which was somewhat cloudy from past damage.

" _Bróðir (Brother),_ " he rumbled, turning to the russet-haired Viking. " _Hvernug hefir þú þat (How are you)?_ "

The man who had been addressed began speaking quickly, eager to get his story out. The chieftain bobbed his head in understanding, considering his words. When at last he had said his piece, the chieftain turned to his men and announced something that caused the small man's face to flush. The group of Norsemen surrounding him chuckled.

Anna stared at the blond Viking, reading his response to try to decipher what was happening; he was agitatedly biting the inside of his cheek, as if to keep in the words he felt the urge to say. When he turned his head, his eyes locked on Anna's, and she could see the unspoken apology reflected in his tawny irises.

Sheathing his sword, the blond man bowed his head slightly and spun on his heel, disappearing into the crowd without another look back at her.

The russet-haired Viking sneered in the direction his opponent had gone, before asking something of the chieftain, whose face fell in annoyance, frowning; he seemed to be getting more and more irritated which each passing second at having his precious time wasted. He gestured to a few men and barked an order, and within moments Anna was grabbed on either side and hustled towards a building at the back of the settlement.

–

Elsa was pushed and prodded like cattle past the men and women of the village. They watched her pass with wide, suspicious eyes.

" _Vǫlva (Witch),_ " they whispered in wary tones. " _Vǫlva. Vǫlva._ "

The women that held Elsa's hands on either side of her, guiding her, looked straight ahead as they walked; they led her to a building on the edge of the settlement, near the forest. A band of men– the burly chieftain who had taken her from Francia among them– stood waiting for her in front of the door.

" _Fjölkunnigri konu skal-at-tu í faðmi sofa (One should never sleep in the arms of a sorceress),_ " a gruff-looking man grumbled from beside the chieftain. " _Svá at hon lyki þik liðum (She will paralyze your limbs)._ "

The chestnut-haired Viking disregarded his comrade's words with a wave of his large hand. Elsa watched with a frightful gaze as that same hand came forward to cup her face, the calloused skin of his fingertips scraping grotesquely against her jawline. His fingernails were black with dried blood and filth.

" _Sjáumst (Until later),_ " he stated; Elsa didn't comprehend what he meant, but it sounded like a promise. His gray-green eyes sparkled and his fingers released her, allowing her to be ushered into the structure, his laugh reaching her ears just as the door was shut and barred behind her.

The inside of the long, low building was hot– _very_ hot– and incredibly humid. Elsa began to perspire immediately upon entering.

A middle-aged woman stepped forward from the corner, gesturing towards Elsa's dress, indicating that she should remove it. When Elsa shook her head in refusal, the woman sighed and moved forward to forcefully remove it herself.

After hanging the garment on a wooden peg, the woman undressed herself and hung her own clothing, before guiding Elsa through a door at the other end of the room. The doorway opened into an even larger, hotter room, thick with steam. The wooden plank walls themselves appeared to sweat.

It seemed to be a public bathhouse of sorts. The middle-aged woman who had entered with Elsa stepped to the side and began distributing herbs to the gaggle of nude women who milled about the foggy room, some sitting, some standing. At the edge of Elsa's vision, a strawberry-blonde head came into view; she dared not hope, but when she turned to inspect the girl more closely, she let out a gasp at the sight of her sister. The sister she had believed to be dead since the siege of Aachen.

"Anna!"

The red-gold head whipped towards the direction she'd heard her name, blue eyes widening with recognition when she identified the person who had called it out; she stumbled forward, crossing to meet her sister on the other end of the room, a smile spreading across her flustered face. Too prudent to embrace in their current state of undress, the two sisters eagerly clasped hands between themselves instead; a tear sprung to Anna's eye and she let out a sound of relief that was between a laugh and a sob.

"Elsa, I was so worried! I thought I'd never see you again. I thought you were…"

Her voice trailed off; the words were too horrible to speak out loud. Elsa gripped her younger sister's hands tighter in her own.

"Are you alright? Have they hurt you?"

Anna shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine. They didn't touch me. Did they hurt you?"

"I'm well. By the grace of God, they didn't touch me, either." Elsa glanced at the room around them. "What are we doing here? What is this?"

"One of the girls over there explained to me that it's some sort of purification ritual," Anna whispered, twisting her hands. She gulped. "Before the men… lay with us."

Bile rose in Elsa's throat at Anna's revelation.

"I don't know what's going to happen, but I'm just so relieved to see you," Anna choked out, wiping at the tears that trailed down her cheeks. "Knowing that you're here, that you're alive, that you're safe…"

Elsa's face fell. As long as they were in this foreign land, away from their kinsmen, surrounded by Pagan savages, she knew that neither of them would ever be safe again.

"I won't let any of those Northern bastards have their way with me," Anna hissed suddenly, clenching her fists at her sides. "Never."

Elsa frowned at her sister. "If you refuse, they'll force you. Or kill you."

Anna crossed her arms. "I'd rather be dead than–"

Elsa interrupted her sister with a rather loud shush, grabbing her by the upper arms. "Don't you say that. Don't you _dare_ say that."

"What?" Anna asked, astonished. "It's true. I'd be better off dead."

"Well, _I_ wouldn't be better off if you were dead!" Elsa rasped. Her voice wavered with fear. "We need to survive, Anna, both of us, and I won't be able to go on knowing that you've gotten yourself killed."

Anna bit her lip and averted her gaze to the floor.

"Please, just be smart about this," the pale-haired woman pleaded. "Don't do anything to lose your life. If not for yourself, then do it for me. Please."

Anna's eyes darted over her sister's face. "Alright. For you, I'll survive."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise." The younger princess huffed and squared her shoulders. "But as soon as there's a chance, we're getting out of this hellish place."

Elsa nodded, but, deep down, she found that she couldn't align herself with her sister's optimism.


	4. Chapter 4

_You got the grace of the storm_

 _In the desert_

 _The Killers, "Some Kind Of Love"_

–

After being removed from the steam room and forced to plunge into an ice cold bath, Anna was dressed in an ill-fitting, thin dress made from evergreen-colored sheep's wool and sent off to a dwelling on the other end of the settlement, closest to the forest's edge. The sun had already begun to set, casting everything in an orange glow, like fire.

Upon reaching the small house, to Anna's horror, the russet-haired Viking was waiting for her just inside the door, and before she could beg for her escort to not leave her with him the strange woman was gone.

Anna stood trembling in the tiny, ramshackle dwelling; she was not a tall girl by any means, but even still the ceiling was almost too low for her height. A cool draft blew in from the spaces around the door and in between the wall planks, raising gooseflesh on her skin. The russet-haired Viking only stood and watched her for the time being, scanning her up and down with his green gaze, while he blocked any possible route to the door– the only door, as far as Anna could tell. She thought briefly of putting up a fight in an attempt to get past him, to escape, but then she remembered the promise she had made to Elsa.

She had promised to survive.

Clearing her throat, Anna found the courage to address the man verbally, opting to use her words to try to find common ground with the man, on the off-chance that perhaps they could speak the same language.

"Who are you?" Anna shifted unsteadily, uncomfortably, on her feet, standing mere paces from the Northerner. "What is your name?"

The man's green eyes flicked to her suspiciously and he seemed to be considering whether or not engaging in conversation with his captive would benefit him in some way. Or perhaps he truly didn't understand her after all.

After a moment, however, he spoke.

"Hans."

Anna blinked in surprise. "Hans? Your name is Hans?"

He nodded. Anna's face lit up.

"So, you can understand me? At least a little bit?"

Hans hesitated again before answering. "No."

"No?" Anna's hope faltered. Having apparently grown tired of her attempts at conversation already, the man took a step forward, which caused Anna to take an instinctive step back, although she had nowhere to possibly go; she was trapped.

Unable to utter even a single word of protest, Hans grabbed Anna by the arm and roughly shoved her over to a sleeping pallet, throwing her down upon it on her back. Looming over her small frame as she trembled atop the pelts, he asked her a question, his green eyes boring down into hers, but when the princess shook her head to indicate that she didn't understand, the man only snarled in annoyance and climbed on top of her.

His fingers found purchase on her dress and yanked the material upward, exposing her freckled thighs, just above her knees. Anna's vision began to swim with sounds and colors, her mind racing a million leagues a minute as her fight-or-flight response kicked in, sending her body into overdrive with a rush of adrenaline. Every hair on her body rose to stand on its end, every nerve skittered and jumped, as his other hand crawled up her side, over her covered ribs, his fingers brushing over her left breast and squeezing lightly. Anna nearly vomited at the sensation.

She tried to think of her sister– tried to remember her promise– but she couldn't.

Before she could think on it any further and potentially doubt herself, Anna pushed him off of her, reached her hand back, and swung her fist forward with all of her might.

–

Elsa sat as patiently as she could at the very edge of the bed, clenching and unclenching her fingers in her lap.

A woman, not much older than Elsa herself, had explained to her in broken Franconian that the chieftain would be with her soon, and intended to lay with her. Even without an explanation, the princess would have had an inkling of what the night held in store for her. The girl offered Elsa no comfort, but only gave her a look of pity before exiting the longhouse.

At the very least, Elsa had been given a new gown to replace her old one, which had been stiff with salt and dirt and had left her exposed at the ankles due to the bandages she had torn from the fabric nearly a fortnight ago. Her new shift was a plain ivory color and made of linen, with a dramatic, plunging neckline and a burgundy cord cinched about her waist to accentuate her figure.

The dwelling she found herself in was surprisingly luxurious; it was spacious, albeit narrow, and animal pelts lined the walls, creating an extra barrier against the elements. Elsa surmised that such a technique must come in handy during the cold Northern winters– not that Elsa herself ever felt cold. The bed she sat on itself was covered with layers of furs and linens, and was easily large enough for four or five people at once.

A cooking fire surrounded by wooden stools and benches crackled and snapped in the center of the room, the smoke rising up and disappearing into the darkening sky outside. How Elsa wished that she could transmute herself into a wisp of smoke, so that she may escape, too.

Her thoughts wandered to the russet-haired Viking. She hadn't seen him since they had disembarked after their journey across the sea, when he had jumped down to the beach and quickly disappeared into the crowd of people who had gathered to greet the ships; at the very least, it was apparent that his wound had healed without infection, and to Elsa that was a small comfort. He was her last connection to Francia, after all, besides her sister, who had been torn from her sight only too soon after they had reunited inside the bathhouse.

The creaking of the door startled Elsa from her thoughts, and when the Frankish princess looked to it she saw the chieftain enter. He smiled upon seeing her– a grotesque, blackened smile that made Elsa's stomach churn– and barred the door behind himself. She looked away.

" _Gott kveld (Good evening),_ " he rumbled in an attempt to get the young woman's attention. She kept her eyes straight ahead.

The chieftain moved forward through the longhouse and addressed her again; when she didn't respond, he grunted and removed his tunic, pulling the dark material over his head and slinging it to the earthen floor, before sitting on the bed beside Elsa in nothing but his breeches. Inadvertently, Elsa caught a glimpse of his bare chest, riddled with pink and white scars and mounds of marred flesh.

" _Hvat segir þú (How are you)?_ "

She still didn't answer, but her body began to shake of its own accord. As if to still her, one of the man's large hands reached out and gripped her shoulder. Seeing no need to attempt further conversation, the fingers of his other hand went to work untying the thin rope around her waist, pulling the knot loose and tugging the cord away before tossing it aside. His moves were cold and calculated, and Elsa had to bite back a sob at the realization that her first time with a man would be nothing like the dreams she'd had as a young maiden.

His large hands travelled to her chest, at first massaging the orbs of her breasts through the fabric of her shift before one hand slipped inside, followed by the other, his dry, cracked palms scratching over the delicate skin. Elsa sucked in a breath and held it; she swore she would not breathe again until this nightmare was over.

To her relief, holding her breath wouldn't be necessary, as his ministrations of her breasts were suddenly interrupted by a series of frantic knocking and yells from outside the door. Growling, the chieftain rose and answered it; standing just outside was a man she recognized immediately– the green-eyed, russet-haired Viking, who was bleeding profusely from his nose– and her heart skipped a beat. He was rambling quietly but animatedly, and when he had finished speaking the chieftain groaned and reached for his sword beside the doorframe, shooting a very confused Elsa a final look over his shoulder before reluctantly trudging outside with the smaller man.

–

Anna's feet stuck in the mud as she ran, squelching and sucking from the weight of her steps. The night was quiet– eerily so– the sparsely populated Northern lands a far cry from the constant bustle and hum of the city of Aachen, even at all hours of the night.

She ran without looking back for what felt like hours, although judging by the stars in the sky that hadn't budged, she had probably only been running for a half hour or so. Exhaustion threatened to overtake the princess, as she hadn't been fed a proper meal in days, but she pushed onward.

When her legs– weak from the cold and the exertion of running such a prolonged distance– bowed and gave out from beneath her, she stumbled and twisted her ankle before catching herself on the trunk of a nearby tree; it was then, as she paused to catch her breath, that she could see a faint trail of smoke in the distance, dancing and twirling against the starry sky.

A cooking fire from a dwelling.

Squinting her eyes, she could just barely make out the dark shape of an abode a few hundred paces away from where she stood. If she were to go there and knock on the door, she had no way of knowing if she would be met by friend or foe, but she did know that the longer she spent exposed to the elements and wild beasts, the less likely it became that she would live to see daybreak. Not only that, but she presumed that Hans must have already started his pursuit of her; she had an inkling that the brutish Viking man would not let her go without a fight.

Well, not without a _proper_ fight, anyway; sucker punching a man and leaving him knocked out cold on the floor was a pretty one-sided fight.

The Frankish princess would have to take her chances on trying the door.

Hobbling on her sprained ankle, which throbbed sharply with each step, Anna made her way to the longhouse. It was small, but larger than Hans's own longhouse, and appeared sturdy, as though it had been built by sure, well-trained hands. The home was surrounded by acres and acres of bare fields for grain crops, and from somewhere near the back a sheep bleated loudly into the night, leading Anna to surmise that whoever lived here kept livestock as well.

With a shaky fist, she reached up and rapped on the door. A beat passed, and then another, before the door rattled with the sound of someone removing the bar on the inside. It was then, when the door swung open, that Anna was met face-to-face by none other than the tall, burly, blond Viking man who had taken her back in Francia.

The last thing she saw was falling forward into his arms before everything went black.


	5. Chapter 5

_You have sailed, my dear, in darkest seas  
In its trenches secrets cannot keep  
I have safely surfaced to be seen  
Rescued by your words you say to me_

 _The Last Bison, "You Are The Only One"_

—

The crackle of a fire reached Anna's ears before she was fully awake. Opening her eyes slowly as sensation returned to her body, she found that she was lying down on a bed, wrapped in soft pelts, staring up at the mudded roof of a unfamiliar dwelling. The smell of something fishy wafted to her nose. She blinked a few times to clear her vision before attempting to sit up, gasping when a stab of pain arrowed through her head, forcing her back down.

There was the shuffle of footsteps, and then a figure looming over her; when she opened her eyes again, she recognized the blond Viking man from earlier.

" _Heil (Hello)._ " The man seemed simultaneously concerned and miffed, the burnished gold of his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he peered down at her. " _Hversu ferr (How are you)?_ "

Anna's lower lip trembled; she didn't understand the Viking tongue, and she tried to tell him so.

"I… I don't…"

He held a wooden ladle to her face and, once she recognized the reflective contents held inside as fresh water, eagerly put her parched lips to it and drank it down in a single, hasty gulp, causing most of it to come out in rivulets down her chin. He left her bedside momentarily and returned with another ladleful, spooning it into her mouth similarly as the first, which Anna was careful to drink more deliberately this time. When at last she had had her fill, he lowered the spoon and watched her with narrowed eyes.

" _Man ek þik (I remember you)._ " He searched her face for a reaction.

Even in her groggy state, she recognized the phrase as the one he had spoken to her back in Francia, in the hunter's shack, and perked up a bit.

"Yes, I remember– man ick thick."

The man shook his head, sounding out the phrase again, albeit more slowly: " _Man ek þik._ "

Irritated, Anna sat up in the bed, nodding her head. "Yes, yes, _I remember you._ "

The shadow of a smile began to creep across the man's whiskered lips and he opened his mouth to speak again, but a sudden commotion from outside the longhouse interrupted him. The barking of elkhounds and the clang and _thunk_ of metal-on-wood sounded through the walls– the sound of swords being beaten on shields by a crowd of angry men, the deafening roar of their shouts a stark contrast to the peaceful quiet of the night.

The man rose from his place beside the bed and crossed the longhouse, removing the wooden bar that secured the door and opening it to address the visitors. Fearful, Anna shrunk back beneath the pelt that covered her, eager to make herself unseen in case one of the men happened to catch a glimpse inside of the house; surely these were the Viking men who had come to reclaim her on behalf of her captor.

From her hiding place, Anna could hear the men converse for some time; the name "Hans" was thrown around– the only word that Anna could pick up on. Her heart thudded erratically in her chest, like a frightened animal; would she be handed over to be returned to Hans?

Had she made a mistake by coming here?

Peeking out from her blanket to peer around the small abode, she realized for the first time the absence of any windows; a hole was cut in the roof to allow the smoke from the cooking fire to escape, but it was too high up for Anna to reach. Escape was impossible. She had no choice but to wait and see what they would do with her.

After a few minutes, Anna heard the door bar thud back into place and the burly man was back at her bedside, alone, standing a couple paces from her with his arms crossed; he gazed down at the redheaded woman in his bed with an unreadable expression. He reminded Anna of a disappointed father, or a husband whose wife refused to obey him. She uncovered herself and sat up in the bed to face him.

"You are _þræll (thrall)_. A slave." It was a statement. "You belong to the Danes."

Anna's eyes widened in surprise; he was speaking nearly perfect Franconian. She found that she could understand his words, even with the accent he inflicted on them. The princess sat up straighter.

"You can speak the language of the Franks?"

The man nodded. "I was born to merchants. We traded often with the Franks."

He regarded Anna for a moment, his amber eyes darting back and forth as they swept over her; the attention made Anna blush.

"You escaped." His tone was accusatory.

Anna was hesitant to answer him. "I... I did."

"Hans wanted to lay with you."

She didn't reply, but only watched him with her frightened blue eyes; the way he described her attempted rape seemed so simple, so inconsequential, as though it were nothing more than a boring chore that had to be done, no matter how unpleasant it may be. It reminded Anna of her sister's own attitude on the subject, and her stomach lurched at the memory of Hans's hands on her dress. There was no way she could have ever gone through with it.

When she didn't speak, the man ran a hand over the red-gold of his beard and sighed.

"You should have lain with him."

"Ha! I'd rather die," Anna spat, proudly.

The man chortled, seemingly impressed by her defiance. "Keep this up and you will."

"What about you?" she asked tersely, setting her jaw and narrowing her eyes. "Will you take me for yourself? Force me? Have your way with me against my will?"

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise and snorted. "You really are an _ǫndōttr píka (feisty lass)_ , you know that? No wonder the Danes are pissed that you gave Hans so much trouble."

His face turned somber then.

"But, no, I will not take you." The man shook his head, his long, golden locs swaying from the motion, the myriad of sparsely-placed beads tinkling as they clicked against one another. "You have my word that I won't touch you. No man will, as long as you're under my protection."

"Do you swear?" Anna gulped. After all, this was the man who had stolen her away from her homeland in the first place. "How do I know that I can trust you?"

" _Sverð mitt (On my sword),_ " the man vowed, pumping a fist to his chest and falling to a knee. "On my honor. I swear."

Anna studied him, wondering whether or not she could trust this man, this man who had taken her away from her homeland, away from everything she had ever known and held dear– not that it was likely that she even had a home to return to now, anyway. His tawny irises seemed to bear no malice or ill will towards her, nor did his eyes reflect any inklings of evil deeds that he may have wished to inflict upon her.

She decided at last that his intentions were sincere.

"You're not like the other Norsemen I've met," she murmured.

The man lifted a brow in a question and rose back to his feet. "Have you met many Norsemen?"

Anna shook her head, regretting the movement immediately when her skull pounded with a dull ache. "No, not many. But I've met enough."

She was pensive for a moment before speaking again, her voice soft.

"Do they know that I'm here?"

"They don't know for sure, but they're suspicious." The man shot a look at the door before turning back to face Anna. "They'll be back. They believe I've stolen Hans's property. You're his woman."

"Will you get in trouble?"

The man pulled at his beard hairs with his fingertips and groaned, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "It's... likely."

Although his tone betrayed the inconvenience of the situation that weighed heavily on his shoulders, he sounded incredibly nonchalant. He spoke with such an unnatural ease about these horrifyingly dire things– things that Anna had only begun to skim the surface of– that it made her somewhat uncomfortable to be in his presence; was he such a hardened man that things such as war and death and rape could be as easily discussed as one might make small talk about the weather?

 _And would he really put my life ahead of his own?_ She wondered. It gave her hope.

"So… I can stay?"

The man considered, then nodded. "Yes. You can stay. For now."

He moved forward towards the bed and pulled the pelt back over Anna, who slid beneath it uneasily to settle in for sleep, her eyes never leaving his.

He made as if to move away from the sleeping pallet, when Anna's hand reached out and took hold of his wrist.

"Wait," Anna pleaded. "What is your name?"

The man considered her for a moment before responding: "Kristoff."

 _Kristoff._ It sounded similar to Christophe, which was familiar to Anna, as it was a common given name in Francia, but the way it rolled off of his tongue was distinct and foreign-sounding.

She liked it.

"Why did you bring me here, Kristoff?"

"As far as I can tell, you were carried here by your own two feet, " the man answered with a laugh that caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle.

"I don't mean _here_ , to your house." Anna gestured around herself with her hands. "I mean, why did you bring me all the way here– to the North– if you're not going to… take me."

"Why did I bring you to _Hordafylke?_ " His warm gaze hardened and his lips turned downward in a slight frown. "I would think it's obvious."

Anna huffed. "No, not really."

"We can talk more tomorrow, _Ǫndōttr Brók,_ " he murmured as his calloused fingers wrapped about her own to unfurl them from around his wrist, sending a tingle through Anna's body, which was already heavy with the tiredness that threatened to overtake her. "Tonight, you should rest."

Needing no further coaxing, as she was no longer able to fight her exhaustion, Anna turned her head away from Kristoff and allowed her eyes to slip closed.


	6. Chapter 6

_You, you take me places I have never been  
Wild lands fade when traced upon your skin  
Try and see how colours bleed and blend_

 _I can't see where I end and you begin_

 _The Last Bison, "You Are The Only One"_

–

Anna awoke as the first rays of gray daylight began to stream in through the thatched roof in slivers, illuminating the room just enough for the princess to see as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Memories from the previous evening came rushing back to her, playing over and over again in her mind's eye, causing her to shiver despite the relative warmth of the longhouse.

The spot beside her in the bed was empty. She wondered briefly whether or not Kristoff had shared the bed with her the previous night, as she could see that it was the only one in the room, but her thoughts were interrupted by the door at the back of the longhouse swinging open. Kristoff walked through it, carrying a bundle of logs he had collected for the fire. He was dressed in a tunic of spun wool as dark as charcoal, trimmed with reindeer furs, and breeches to match. The material contrasted starkly against the light gold of his locs.

" _Góðan morgin (Good morning), Ǫndōttr Brók,_ " he greeted upon seeing that his guest was awake. "Did you sleep well?"

"Good morning," Anna greeted warily, pulling the sleeping pelt tighter around her shoulders. "Yes, I did. Have you, um, been up long?"

"Only a couple hours," Kristoff replied with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders as he crossed the length of the room to drop the wood on the floor beside the fire pit. Anna watched as he began to stoke the fire with one of the logs.

"Are you hungry, _Ǫndōttr Brók?_ " he asked from over his shoulder.

Anna's stomach rumbled at his words. "Actually, I'm starving."

"I have some leftover _fiskesuppe (fish soup)_ in the cauldron from last night." Kristoff moved from the fire towards a shelf on the wall that housed a myriad of wooden bowls, platters, and utensils. After rummaging for a bowl and spoon, he turned to address her.

"If you'd like?"

Anna nodded and he went to work ladling out a serving for her. When the redheaded woman still didn't move from her spot on the bed, Kristoff waved her over.

Cautiously, she rose from the bed and made her way towards the fireplace to take a seat on one of the stools, accepting the steaming bowl when Kristoff handed it to her. She stared down at it, unsure.

"It's not poisoned, if that's what you're worried about," he chortled as he poured a ladleful for himself. "If I wanted to kill you, there are much easier and cleaner ways to do it, _Ǫndōttr Brók._ "

He turned his eyes to the ceiling in thought. "And cheaper."

"' _On dotter brock,'_ " Anna huffed in annoyance, mirroring his words back to him, although her pronunciation of the Viking language was poor. "You keep calling me that. I have a name, you know– it's Anna."

"First of all, it's said ' _Ǫndōttr Brók,'_ " he corrected, bringing his gaze back down to look at her. "And no, I wouldn't know, since I told you my name but you never told me yours."

"Oh." Anna's face flushed; he was right. How rude of her. She took a small, awkward sip of the stew in good faith; it was surprisingly good.

They ate in silence for some time, but once the ache in Anna's belly had been adequately satiated, her tense muscles relaxed and the questions burning at the forefront of her mind pushed forward, no longer held back by the distraction of hunger.

"Hey," she started tentatively, setting her nearly-empty bowl in her lap. "Last night, I asked you why you brought me here, and you said that it's obvious, but… I'm afraid it's not obvious to me. At all."

Kristoff eyed her before tipping his bowl to his lips, downing the remainder of his soup in a single swallow. When he pulled away with a contented _ahhh_ and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, he set his bowl at his feet and focused his gaze on the fire before them before speaking.

"In Francia… in the forest… I saw Hans pursuing you. I had no doubt as to what his intentions were. So, I followed him. I followed you."

Anna's throat constricted at remembering that night, but she nodded, willing him to continue.

"I challenged him for… for the right to claim you," Kristoff said with difficulty. He could feel Anna watching him and avoided her gaze. "I know how terrible that sounds, but it was the only way I could intervene. It was the only way I could save you from him."

 _So he did save me after all,_ Anna realized. It was then that she noticed that, although his face was youthful and boyish, he appeared tired beyond his years.

"Is that why nobody touched me on the ship?" she asked in disbelief. "Because you claimed me?"

Kristoff nodded. "Yes, I had claimed you. The Danes were bound by honor to not mess with another man's woman."

Anna drew her brows together in confusion. "But then, why did Hans…"

"When we returned here, to _Hordafylke,_ Hans accused me of being a _vargr_ – a thief. He publicly challenged my honor." Kristoff sighed and ran a hand over his scalp. "In Viking culture, stealing one's property or woman without a proper fight is considered the most dishonorable thing a man can do. Since I had no witnesses to back me up, to confirm that I had bested him back in Francia, I had to rescind my claim to you. To protect my honor."

"You just gave me over to him without a fight, then?" Anna scoffed. "So honorable."

"I tried," Kristoff snarled suddenly, whipping his head to face her, visibly frustrated. "But his elder brother– the chieftain of the tribe– intervened. Hans is a son of Dagr, and even though the clan respects me more than they respect him, Viking law is very clear in how these disputes are to be settled. I had no chance, and I have a family to think of– if I die, there's no one left to protect them or provide for them."

Anna lowered her head; she understood completely.

"I have family to think about, too," she murmured sadly. "My sister. I can't imagine what would happen to her if something happened to me. My parents are lost at sea... believed to be dead. They may have even been attacked by Northern pirates. Either way, we're all we have left in the world."

Kristoff's expression softened and he blinked. "I understand."

"You do?" Anna recoiled slightly.

The blond man nodded. "My mother was a Frank and my father was a Northerner, from a place even farther north than here. I lost them both when I was young."

"I'm so sorry."

"My parents were merchants. My father even took me on a trip to the capital of Francia once, about ten years ago." Kristoff's eyes flickered with light and he turned to meet Anna's gaze at last. "That's where I saw you."

Anna's heart skipped a beat. "You've met me before?"

She tried to remember a time when they had ever met as children, but she came up with nothing.

"You wouldn't remember," Kristoff mumbled softly. "You had fallen ill, and your father– the King– came to my father to see about buying some herbs from the Orient to cure you. Although you were sick with fever, you were a beautiful child. Strong. Resilient. I could tell that you had a fighting spirit… that you'd survive."

He turned his focus back to the flames. "We returned from our voyage to find my mother gone and our village burned to the ground. My father passed on shortly thereafter. I found my way here, to Svensholm, and Bulda took me in as her ward. I've been here ever since."

His gaze travelled back to her face, and then to the top of her head. "But, as a child, I do remember believing that your hair was made of fire."

Anna couldn't help but smile. "My father often told me that, when I was born, the sun goddess put a fiery copper circlet on my head, and it infused every strand with its fire. Well, every strand except..."

She pulled out a length of hair that was as white as ice, hidden amongst her ginger locks, and held it out for Kristoff to see. "'Even in fire, there can be ice.' That's what Gerda used to tell me."

"How did that happen?" Kristoff asked, eyeing the white hair with intrigue. The Frankish princess only shrugged.

"I was born with it, I guess? I've had it for as long as I can remember. My mother used to joke that it was leftover inside of her from when Elsa was born, and so it came out on my head. Although I dreamt that I was kissed by a troll."

Kristoff raised an eyebrow. "You Franks are an odd bunch, you know that?"

Anna hummed in amusement before her face fell and her tone became serious. "I am sorry, though. About your parents."

He waved away her concern with his hand. "I made my peace with what happened long ago."

"So, then... you know who I am?" Anna twiddled her fingers anxiously around the handle of her spoon. "Is that why you saved me?"

"I didn't know before. But I did once I'd seen your face."

Anna turned to face Kristoff once more and was caught off-guard by the expression on his features; he was watching her intently, his amber eyes glazed over and full of awe, as if he couldn't believe that she was here. Truly, Anna couldn't believe it either. She felt her face warm.

Kristoff broke eye contact first, when he rose to discard of his bowl. When he returned, he addressed Anna in a businesslike manner.

"As long as you're staying here, you'll work to earn your keep. My _móðir_ will come by later with some clothes and things for you."

"Your what?"

"My mother."

"Oh." Anna shifted in her seat. "Anyway– thank you, Kristoff… for saving me."

" _Ekki at þakka (You're welcome)._ " He shrugged. "It was nothing."

"You've already done so much for me, but would it be too much to ask if you have a bathtub?" Anna asked sheepishly as she fingered the hem of her dress, caked with mud. "I'd love a bath."

Kristoff laughed– a deep, resonating laugh, and when he quieted and smiled at Anna it shocked her to see how truly handsome he was. She lifted her eyebrows at him in a question.

"You are definitely a princess. Come, I'll show you."


	7. Chapter 7

_I don't know you_

 _But I want you_

 _All the more for that_

 _Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová, "Falling Slowly"_

–

Kristoff led Anna out through the door at the other end of the longhouse (which, she learned, led to a stable attached to the back of the building, occupied by a reindeer and some goats and sheep). Once outside, they made their way down a steep embankment, and along a footpath that wound its way through a cluster of trees. As they walked, Kristoff explained to Anna that this settlement was a homestead, called Svensholm, and was home to himself, his adoptive mother and father, his adoptive grandfather, and a few other families.

After awhile the trees began to thin out, until they opened into a small clearing, in the center of which was a glittering pool.

Lifting her skirt from the ground, Anna dipped a toe in to test the waters and yelped.

"It's _freezing!_ "

"It's fed by the mountain stream," Kristoff explained, amused. "The snow on the top of the mountains melts slowly throughout the Spring and Summer and the water makes its way down here. It's constantly recycling and refilling, so the water is always fresh."

The Frankish princess shook her head. "I'll never understand you Northerners and your love affair with cold water."

Kristoff crossed his arms and shrugged. "It's good for your circulation. Keeps the body healthy."

Anna threw up both hands in concession.

"Well, seeing as I have no other choice… do you mind?"

The blond man cocked his head. "Mind what?"

The ginger-haired woman cleared her throat and pointed with her eyes to indicate that Kristoff should look away. When he didn't get the hint, she agitatedly waved him away with her hand.

"Are you _trying_ to stay here and watch me bathe?"

"What?" Kristoff was taken aback by the accusation. "No– no, of course not!"

Anna lifted a suspicious eyebrow at him and the Viking man let out an exasperated huff.

"I'll go, but I won't be far. Just shout if you need me."

Once Anna felt comfortable that Kristoff was a far enough distance away, she carefully peeled her dirtied shift from her body and laid it out flat on the ground. As much as she would have liked to wash it, the springtime day was not warm enough to go traipsing about in damp clothing. She also didn't have any soap, although she direly wished for some.

It took the young woman a few tries to wade into the water far enough to cleanse herself, as she was shocked by the cold each time. When at last she had made her way into waist-deep water, she hurriedly splashed water across her arms and torso and rubbed, eager to do a thorough job of removing the filth from her body, but even more eager to get out as quickly as possible. Her legs had already started to go numb.

After spending a bit of extra time rinsing the feeling of Hans' grimy hands from her chest, she sucked in a breath and dunked her head below the water, swishing her hair in an effort to shake the dirt from it. Upon resurfacing, she made a beeline for the bank, teeth chattering all the way.

She redressed and strolled towards the footpath. Her escort was nowhere to be seen.

"Kristoff?" she called out.

When he didn't answer immediately, Anna's heart began to palpitate.

"Kristoff?" she tried again.

Only the chirping of a songbird greeted her from the wood. A chill of panic ran down Anna's spine.

 _Where could he have gone?_ she wondered, daring to peer further inside the trees. _He said he wouldn't be far. Did he leave me here?_

Anna had no idea where she was. If she tried, she might be able to find her way back to the longhouse on her own. But then what? Would she be alone again? Forced to flee on foot to the next homestead that she came across? It surprised her to find that she had placed so much trust in Kristoff already, that losing him now felt as devastating as losing a part of herself.

Just as she was about to give in to the hopelessness she felt, she heard the snapping of twigs underfoot, and Kristoff appeared on the footpath.

"All done?" Kristoff blinked and his eyes widened upon registering the fear on her face. "Anna, what's wrong?"

Tears pricked at her lashes and the princess shook her head, biting back the urge to cry.

"N-nothing, I'm fine," she lied, doing her best to sound brave and unaffected. "The water was... just… really cold."

Kristoff pressed his mouth into a pensive line, as if he didn't believe her excuse, but didn't press the issue further. He gestured with a tick of his head towards the trees, and Anna acquiesced. They walked side-by-side in tense silence until the longhouse was nearly in sight.

"Anna, wait." He stopped in his tracks and took ahold of her shoulders with either hand, turning her to face him.

"What is it?" she asked, confused. His face was full of concern and his palms were fiery hot through the thin material of her dress, a welcome sensation compared to the cool dampness of her wet hair against her back.

Kristoff inhaled deeply before speaking.

"Make sure you remember how to get here. Commit the route to your memory. Should the Danes ever come back to search for you, I want you to run– drop whatever you're doing and just _run_ – as fast as you can. Jump into the pool and hide beneath the water until I come to retrieve you when it's safe again."

Anna was speechless, and Kristoff shook her gently to elicit a response, his brown eyes boring into her blues. "If they discover you here, I can't guarantee that they'll take you back alive. Do you understand?"

Anna knew that he wouldn't survive such an altercation, either, but at the moment he was only concerned about her. He truly wished to protect her life, even over his own. It made her heart speed up.

After a moment, Anna nodded her understanding. He mirrored her nod and seemed visibly relieved; his shoulders relaxed, allowing his hands to fall from her.

"Good."

He turned and continued on up the hill towards the longhouse, but Anna didn't immediately follow; she watched after him for a minute, an unfamiliar, forlorn longing twisting in her gut.

–

When they returned to Kristoff's home, his mother was already waiting for them, sitting in front of the fire as she worked at skimming the fat from the top of a pail of goat's milk. She was plump, albeit short, and her hair was a pale gold, like wheat; Anna could easily see how she'd be able to pass Kristoff off as her natural-born son. Although the princess could tell that she was older, at least three times as old as Anna herself, her dark, doe-like eyes and warm smile upon seeing Kristoff disguised her years.

"Kristoff," she crooned, rising from her stool to greet him and embrace the larger man in a hug. When she noticed Anna behind him, her expression didn't change.

"And you must be the Frankish girl." Her Franconian was broken and flawed, inflected with a heavy accent, not nearly as perfect as Kristoff's. Perhaps Kristoff had been the one to teach her secondhand.

"I'm Anna," she introduced herself; she wondered whether or not it would be proper form to curtsy in Northern culture, but she wasn't sure, so she remained straight and indecisively rigid instead.

The older woman's eyes twinkled. " _Anna!_ A beautiful name. You may call me _Mama._ "

" _Móðir (Mother),_ " Kristoff admonished, groaning with embarrassment. Anna had to choke back a snort.

"Alright, _sonr (son),_ alright. Anna, you may call me Bulda."

Bulda turned to her adoptive son then and spouted off a few choice phrases in the Viking language that caused Kristoff's face to turn redder than a beetroot; when the woman turned to retrieve some things from the bench behind her, Anna leaned over to whisper in Kristoff's ear.

"What did she say?"

"How it's about high time that I've finally brought a girl home." The blond man rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "She said that if I don't ask you to marry me then I'm an _eldhúsfífl._ "

"A what?"

Kristoff sighed, dropping his voice even lower. "A good-for-nothing idiot who sits alone by the fire all day."

Anna blinked a couple times as she processed the absurdity of such an insult, before bursting into a fit of hushed giggles.

"I like her," Anna laughed. Kristoff rolled his eyes in annoyance, but his amused grin betrayed his true emotions.

When Bulda turned back around to face the pair, she held out a folded, olive-green dress to Anna.

"A new dress for you, dear," she proclaimed. "Well, new-ish. I figured Inga might be the same size as you."

After Kristoff quietly excused himself and stepped outside, Anna changed into the new, clean dress; Bulda let out a noise of approval upon seeing her.

"I was right! It fits perfectly!"

The woolen dress was scratchy, but not altogether uncomfortable, although it made Anna long for the soft linen and brocade dresses of Francia. She wondered how Bulda would have known which dress would fit her– unless, she realized, Kristoff had explained the shape and size of her body to the woman in detail. The thought made Anna blush and she hoped that Bulda wouldn't notice.

Kristoff returned just as Bulda had finished brushing and braiding Anna's hair. He seemed to do a double-take upon seeing her; Anna figured that she must look like an entirely different person, with the dirt washed from her skin and the leaves and mats worked out of her red-gold locks.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Bulda crooned, causing Kristoff to scowl and shoot his mother a look of disdain. The older woman only cackled at her own mischievousness.

"Come, Anna, I'll introduce you to the other girls," she started, taking the princess by the hand.

When Kristoff nodded his confirmation that it was safe to go, Anna allowed herself to be led outside. She glanced once more over her shoulder at the man who had saved her life, who watched her go with an indecipherable expression before closing the door behind them.

–

 **A/N: To all of my supporters, I am so incredibly blessed to have you. I wouldn't be able to push on with this story without you. Thank you all for the kind and encouraging words. (You know who you are!)**


	8. Chapter 8

_Precious fate  
Entwines itself around  
My own mistakes_

 _The Last Bison, "Distance"_

–

The chieftain didn't return to Elsa the night that Anna disappeared, nor the following night, nor the night after.

The first night, after he had left her to go with the russet-haired Viking, Elsa hardly slept, but somehow managed to catch a few intermittent bouts throughout the night. Once or twice she thought she dreamed of the russet-haired Viking; she dreamt that she was back in Francia, in the tunnel with him, bandaging his wound, his green eyes burning a hole through her very soul.

Shortly after dawn, she was roused by a young woman who reminded the Frankish princess of her sister– but with brunette hair that had been cropped incredibly short and fewer freckles on her face– who brought her bread and a stein of skimmed milk to break her fast. Although Elsa didn't feel very hungry, she choked down a few bites of the dry bread. Just enough sustenance to survive.

When the girl returned a short time later to retrieve Elsa's tray, the Frankish princess reached out and grabbed her by the skirt. It was impolite, and forward, but Elsa was desperate for answers. Microscopic ice crystals formed on the fabric in her grip.

"Please, tell me," Elsa pleaded. "Where is the other girl from Francia?"

"Let m-me go," the girl stammered in fearful Franconian, hiding her face with a hand. "W-which other girl?"

"Red-gold hair, freckles, blue eyes–"

"She was given to Lord Hans," she squeaked. "She is his _ambátt_ , his slave woman."

Elsa let out the breath she had been holding. "Where? Where is she?"

"Please," the girl sobbed. "They're going to punish me."

A stab of guilt arrowed through Elsa and her expression softened. Regrettably, she released the girl's dress, who let out a whine and scurried out of the house, stumbling over her own feet.

 _Should I try to escape?_ Elsa wondered.

Of course not; she knew that she couldn't leave without Anna, and she had no clue as to where Anna was being kept. Without answers, Elsa could see no other option than to sit and wait for the chieftain to return to her– as he inevitably would. So, she waited. And stoked the fire. And waited. And watched the walls. And waited.

It wasn't until dusk that the door opened. Elsa looked to it frightfully, expecting to see the chieftain enter, but was surprised to see the same brown-haired slave girl from earlier instead. She entered, albeit reluctantly, carrying a tray of stew and bread, keeping her head down.

Just as Elsa thought she was going to deposit the tray and leave without a word, she spoke up.

"The other girl, with the red-gold hair," she started in a shaky voice, avoiding Elsa's gaze. "She escaped last night."

When Elsa gasped in response, the girl jumped, startled. Elsa knew that– if Anna had been forced to flee without her– that something dire must have happened. Her heart deflated with the knowledge; if anyone was going to get them out of the hellish North, it would have been Anna. Courageous, impulsive Anna– not meek, cowardly Elsa. The regal daughter. The good girl.

"Escaped? But, how…"

Unwilling to say any more, the girl shook her head and fled from the longhouse.

Anna was gone. She had successfully escaped. Perhaps she would come back for Elsa at some point; more than likely, she would not. The pale-haired princess decided that she would cherish the idea that Anna had found a better place elsewhere, and Elsa would live the remainder of her days as a prisoner of the Northerners comforted by the thought that her sister was living her life free and happy.

On the second morning, the slave girl entered the dwelling and handed Elsa a pail of water and a heap of bloodied clothes and briefly instructed her in Franconian to go outside and wash. Before Elsa could open her mouth to ask any of the questions that had spinning around her mind since the previous night, the girl left in a hurry, apparently eager to leave Elsa's presence as quickly as possible.

The village folk had similar reactions to the Frankish princess. As soon as she stepped outside, a couple of men who had been conversing nearby instinctively gripped the hilts of their swords and moved away. A group of children who had been playing in front of the door turned and ran in a scattered cluster, their game forgotten. An older woman, who was apparently also on her way to wash some clothes, increased the pace of her steps as she hurried past the pale-haired Frankish girl.

When Elsa found a clear spot in the sun on the ground beside the longhouse, she settled in to wash, but was almost immediately shrouded in darkness as a looming shadow fell over her. She glanced up to find herself looking directly into the face of the russet-haired Viking and froze with fear.

" _Heil og sæl,_ " he greeted in a sickly sweet voice. "So, you're still alive, after all. I'll admit that I had my doubts."

"It's you," was all that Elsa could manage to say, her voice barely audible.

The man smiled, his green eyes dark. " _Mun þú mik (Remember me?)_ "

"I can understand you." Elsa blinked. Her mind was dizzy, hazy, registering things much more slowly than usual. "You speak Franconian."

"I do," the man admitted, absentmindedly checking his fingernails. "I'm afraid my brothers don't find knowing the language of your captives nearly as useful as I do."

His brothers? The same ones that feared her– a tiny, powerless woman– and made themselves scarce whenever she walked by?

 _Such brave warriors._

"You're not afraid of me?" Elsa asked, willing her voice not to tremble.

"Afraid of you?" the man snorted. "Why would I be afraid of a little sparrow like you?"

"Everyone else seems to be."

"That's because they believe you are _vǫlur_. A spaewife. A witch."

"And you don't?"

He seemed to consider for a moment. "I do believe that you have a power inside of you. I've seen it with my own eyes. But, you are too cowardly to confront it. To use it."

His eyes narrowed. "Besides, I know that you are the frightened one. I could see it in your eyes in the tunnel in Aachen, and I can see it even now."

Her heart fluttered at the memory. Why did she react to him so? Why did he consume her thoughts more than any ordinary man should?

"What is your name?" she whispered.

His answer was concise, emotionless: "Hans."

The world around them seemed to stop all at once. Even the birds chirping in the trees ceased their song, devastated by his words. Blood pulsed in Elsa's ears. Had it not been for the pail she leaned her weight upon, she would have surely fallen over from shock.

"Hans?" Elsa knew the name; Hans was the name of the one who had taken Anna. The monster of a man who had done something so horrendous to her sister, that she had no choice but to flee for her life. The slave girl had told her so.

Elsa jerked with newfound hostility, and Hans took a step back, surprised by her sudden change in demeanor.

"What did you do to my sister?" she hissed. Her fingers gripped the edge of the wooden pail with such an intensity that she was afraid her fingernails would split from the pressure. "Where is she? _Where is Anna?_ "

"Your _systir?_ " Hans studied her for a moment, his green irises darting back and forth over her face, which was contorted with barely subdued rage. His eyes widened slightly with something akin to realization. "The girl with copper hair?"

Elsa wanted to scream, wanted to throw herself at him, wanted to claw his eyes from his sockets with her own fingers. It was a foreign feeling to her to be desperate for such violence, but something about this redheaded, green-eyed Norseman brought it out in her. It made her feel ill.

A sound between a shriek and a growl escaped the back of her throat before Elsa could stop it, causing a few villagers nearby to snap their heads in the direction of the pair.

Hans noticed that they noticed, and he crouched down, leaning in closer to the seething young woman; Elsa was reminded briefly of how close they had been back in Francia, back when she had been foolish enough to save his life, and it only served to fuel her anger further.

"We can't speak on these things here," he murmured. "If my brother catches wind that I've been around his house, talking to his woman, while he's away…"

He shook his head. "Meet me tomorrow night in the woods behind the bathhouse. Come after dark. Be sure that no one follows you."

Elsa wanted to reach out and strike him, but her hands stuck to the pail she was holding– literally. When she glanced down, she saw that her hands were encased in fresh ice and the water inside had frozen solid.

As controlled as she possibly could, she clenched her teeth and nodded her understanding, avoiding his gaze. Hans nodded in return and rose, strolling away from her without another word, his long, gray tunic swaying with his steps.

As soon as he was out of sight, Elsa's thoughts traveled to the steel dagger with the bejeweled handle tucked against the side of her breast– which, luckily, the chieftain hadn't discovered in his explorations the night that he had tried to take her. It was the same one that she had used to cut bandages for the wounded Viking the night that he and his brothers plundered her home and burned it to the ground.

She should have never intervened in saving his life. Now, she would have her chance to remedy her mistake, and dole out justice for crimes committed against her home and her sister in one fell swoop; no longer would she stand idly by, cowering in fear, a victim to her own fate.

She would meet Hans at the aforementioned meeting place, as planned, and kill him.


	9. Chapter 9

_If I were a little sparrow_

 _O'er these mountains I would fly_

 _I would find him, I would find him_

 _Look into his lying eyes_

 _Josienne Clarke and Ben Walker, "Little Sparrow"_

–

It took all of Elsa's willpower to not break her fingers in her own iron-like grip, so intensely did she wring them.

She did not sleep. She did not eat. She passed the hours restlessly, pacing the floor, stopping occasionally to stoke the fire before returning to her pacing once more. Whenever the slave girl came by to bring her food or clothing, Elsa dismissed her wordlessly with a flick of her wrist; the young girl was only too relieved to oblige.

Three separate times she thought of the chieftain, and whether or not he would return from his unknown journey before her plan for revenge could come to fruition, but each time she convinced herself that– if he did return– she would simply slit his throat, as well.

Scoffing out loud, Elsa had to laugh at herself; she had never stabbed a man before in her life, yet now, here she was, planning on ending the lives of two men by her own hand. Two men who were seasoned, hardened, savage warriors, at that. Two men who would surely snuff out her own life force as easily as one extinguishes a candle.

She must have gone mad on the ship over from Francia and these were the delusions of her hysteria finally setting in. Truly, she felt insane.

When Elsa awoke, she found her cheek pressed to the compacted dirt floor of the dwelling, and was surprised to roll over and see the sun already high in the sky through the hole in the thatched roof. She must have worn herself out and passed out on the floor, then slept throughout the remainder of the night and the entirety of the morning. A cold tray of milk, bread, and berries was waiting for her on the table.

Tonight, she would meet Hans.

After changing into a fresh gown of steely, crisp blue, Elsa bided her time until dusk, when she found that she was surprisingly calm by the time the slave girl entered with her evening meal. As the girl placed the tray before Elsa and turned to leave, the Frankish princess spoke.

"Wait," she said. "What is your name?"

The girl hesitated, as if debating whether or not she should answer or run, but after a moment she turned to Elsa and dared to meet her blue irises with her own.

"My… my name is Frida, my lady," she near-whispered. The fear was evident in her voice.

"My name is Elsa," the princess introduced, leaning forward ever-so-slightly. "How old are you, Frida? You are from Francia, correct?"

Reluctantly, the girl nodded. "Yes. I am thirteen."

So young. Elsa's heart sank, but she continued her line of questioning.

"Have you been here long?"

"About a year, my lady," Frida answered, looking down at her feet. Elsa could sense how desperately she wanted to leave, how much she loathed this conversation. She figured she better get to the point.

"I just wanted to thank you for everything that you have done for me," Elsa said, sincerely. "And, if it wouldn't be too much to ask, if you could show me where the bathhouse is?"

"Lord Ulf said you are not to leave the house," she mumbled quietly.

"Ulf? Is he the chieftain?"

Frida nodded.

"I think that we could keep this our little secret, couldn't we?" Elsa put on a slight pout. "I'm afraid I just feel dreadfully filthy and would love nothing more than a bath. I am sure that Ulf would prefer me clean when he returns, as well, don't you think?"

After a minute, Frida acquiesced. "Of course, my lady. Follow me."

The girl led Elsa to the same bathhouse that she had visited only days before; the last time she had seen Anna. It was a long, low, squatty building, set further back, away from the others.

When Frida offered to go fetch water for her bath, Elsa thanked her, hiding the guilt she felt at betraying such a kindly girl. How else could she have found her way to the bathhouse except for under the pretense that she wanted a bath?

As soon as the girl disappeared from Elsa's view, she slunk along the wall and found her way to the trees that clustered fifty paces or so behind the building. There, silhouetted against the mauve sky of dusk, was the redheaded Viking– Hans.

He was dressed in the same gray tunic and trousers, with leather boots on his feet and a sword belted at his waist; in the red-orange light of sunset his shoulder-length locs seemed to be made of fire, the silver beads woven throughout the braids practically glowing. He was facing away from her, rubbing a hand along his short beard and sideburns as he waited.

Without a second thought, Elsa lunged at him.

Before she had even pulled the dagger fully from her breast, he had turned to face her. He deflected her blow easily with his forearm, causing Elsa to lose her grip on the dagger and tumble down into the dirt. It was all over in a matter of seconds.

 _How stupid can I be,_ Elsa admonished herself as she hit the ground, hard enough that stars exploded behind her eyes; she had never been one for confrontation or striking the first blow– or any blow, for that matter. Her dagger bounced into a patch of moss just out of her reach, its rubies glinting evilly in the dying light of day.

She failed to heed her own advice– to not do anything to get herself killed– and now she had gone and done just that.

 _Now he will surely kill me. I'm so sorry, Anna._

She closed her eyes and lowered her head, fingers clenched in the earth, as she waited for him to draw his sword and finish her off. She waited. And waited. Moments passed, and yet no blade was brought down upon her neck. Instead, when she dared to glance up at him, she was surprised to see that he was holding out a hand to her.

"So, the daughter of Agnarr has _bǫllr (balls),_ after all."

Elsa's blue eyes widened. "You're… you're not going to kill me?"

"Why would I want to kill you?" The man snorted. "Do you think we _Pagan savages_ just go around killing needlessly whenever we fancy?"

"Because, I…" Elsa's voice trailed off as her gaze trailed towards the direction her dagger had gone.

 _Because I just tried to slit your throat._

"You're not the first woman to pull a knife on me, Princess."

He seemed sincere. Surely, if it was his intention to kill her, he would have done so already and while she was down. Hesitantly, Elsa took his proffered hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

"Besides, as I recall, you _did_ spare my life once," he cooed once she was standing again. "Which, I must say, was quite the foolish move on your part."

Elsa huffed and dusted off the front of her dress with both hands.

"You're telling me," she muttered. Hans smirked, but then his face contorted in bemusement. With his arms crossed, he pointed towards Elsa with a finger.

"Might I ask _why,_ exactly, you were coming at me with that blade?"

"For my sister," Elsa seethed, clenching her fists at her sides. "You took my sister against her will, and you defiled her."

It took the man a moment to realize who she was speaking of.

"Ah, yes. The copper-haired girl." Chuckling, Hans shook his head and put both hands palms up in a gesture of mock innocence. "I swear, I did not know that she was your sister."

Elsa let out an angry, disbelieving laugh. "Oh, so that makes it alright to take an innocent maiden, then?"

He cocked his head. "No, I suppose it doesn't."

"You don't sound very apologetic."

"I presume your culture has different moral codes concerning how to treat prisoners of raids."

Elsa narrowed her eyes. " _Wildly_ different."

Hans _tsk'd_. "I only took that girl to prove a point. To try to command some respect. And, I suppose, I was a _bit_ angry– claiming your sister seemed to be the best way to get back at them at the time."

"To get back at who?"

"My brothers." Hans pressed his thin lips into an even thinner line. "And that _heimskt troll (stupid troll)_ from Svensholm."

Bewildered, Elsa shook her head and pressed her fingertips to her temple, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she dared to meet his eyes.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what any of this has to do with harming my sister."

Hans sighed. "I don't know how you do things back in the South, but around here it's not enough to simply survive."

He carefully uncrossed his arms and took a step toward Elsa, causing the Frankish woman to take an instinctive step back to maintain the distance between them.

"You need to command respect. You need to be tough, brutal, unforgiving. There's no such thing as survival here; there's only the strong, and the dead."

Elsa let out a shrill laugh. "What would _you_ know about being tough? From what I can tell, you're the least tough of them all. The laughing stock of the entire clan."

Hans lip curled, baring his teeth; when he spoke, his voice was level, controlled. "I may be the 'laughing stock,' as you say, but I am the most cunning. What I lack in brute strength, I make up with my wits. I've got a sharp mind. Unfortunately, that's not exactly something that is prized in our _brutish_ culture."

The princess felt a chill run its course through her body at his words and she shivered. "What– what do you mean?"

"In _Víkingr_ culture, _ergi–_ unmanliness– is seen as a particularly shameful trait to have." The redheaded man pursed his lips and tilted his head towards the sky, which was already dotted with stars. "In fact, it can sometimes be seen as an offense serious enough to be punished by exile or death."

Elsa brought her cupped hands to her bosom in shock at the severity of such a revelation. "Goodness."

"Luckily for me, 'unmanliness' is something that I am apparently blessed to have in abundance. So, you see," Hans continued, taking another step forward and causing Elsa to shrink in on herself, crossing her arms over her chest for protection and hugging herself tightly; she felt uncomfortably cold, despite the warm air of the evening. "They forced my hand. I had no choice but to become one of those Northern savages that all of you Franks believe us to be."

The silver-haired woman shook her head. "No, you're wrong. You had a choice– and you made the wrong one. The selfish one. Nobody forced you. That makes you a coward. You should know that– if you're as intelligent as you claim."

Hans's eyes darkened and his voice lowered, turning dangerous. "I can't say that I don't regret what I did. But do not accuse me of being a coward for trying to garner some sort of _orð–_ a reputation– for myself, _genta (woman)_."

Hans stole forward then, towards her, taking one step, then another. The Frankish princess found herself frozen to her spot on the ground; unable to move, ice crystals snaked outward from the soles of her bare feet.

" _Deyr fé (Cattle die), deyja frændr (kinsmen die), deyr sjalfr it sama (one's self must also die),_ " he chanted, reciting the verse from memory as he advanced on her. " _Ek veit einn (I know of only one thing), at aldrei deyr (which never dies): dómr um dauðan hvern (the reputation of each dead man)._ "

When at last they were standing toe-to-toe, Elsa dared to peer up into his eyes, her icy blues meeting his clear greens, but couldn't stop the shake of her legs as they threatened to give out from under her. She could hear nothing but his voice and her own heart as it hammered in her ears.

"Or, would it just be easier for you if I pretended to be the monster you believe me to be?" he asked, not expecting an answer. "To put a face to your hate. To present to you someone else to blame other than yourself for the shitty hand you've been dealt."

"No," was all that Elsa could get out, but the syllable was choked.

"I would have been good to you, Princess, had my brother not laid claim to you," he murmured slyly, reaching up to lightly finger the ends of her white locks. When his knuckles inadvertently brushed her neck, Elsa shuddered at the touch; she'd never stood this close to a man who wasn't a familial relative before. It caused her her stomach to churn.

His glowering green gaze flicked from her lips to her eyes. "Maybe I'll still have you yet."

Sickened, confused, and frightened beyond belief, Elsa uttered a noise of disgust as she shoved him backwards with both palms against his chest, before she turned and ran as fast as she could towards the chieftain's longhouse– or at least, the direction she thought it could be– never once stopping or looking back to see if Hans was chasing after her. Somehow, her legs carried her there, and she rushed inside and slammed the door bar into place with a resonating clack.

It was then, when she turned and leaned her back against the door to catch her breath, that she saw that the chieftain had returned– and he was waiting for her.


	10. Chapter 10

_Everytime I close my eyes, I can touch the colors around me_

 _Suddenly, I realize everything I thought was impossible is here_

 _And my heart sings in a world so incredible_

 _And everything burns much brighter_

 _Cider Sky, "Northern Lights"_

–

After only a few short weeks, Anna had begun to rise consistently with the birds.

She had gotten better at helping Kristoff with the cooking and laundering; the callouses that had begun to form on her palms were evidence enough that she was no longer a delicate and pampered princess. She had even learned to stop itching for a bath anytime a thin layer of sweat and filth formed on her sun-kissed skin after a hard day of work.

Her skills at the loom had greatly improved as well, evident by Bulda's appreciative hum when Anna held out her work for her to inspect.

Together, Anna and Kristoff spent many nights talking around the fire in his longhouse, discussing everything from family to politics, and their differences regarding things like culture and religion, learning more and more about one another with each passing day. When it was time for sleep, Anna would make her way to the bed while Kristoff went outside to sleep in the stables; Anna felt guilty for taking his bed, but she said nothing. It felt silly, but she found herself… missing him at night. She knew that anything more or less than sleeping in separate rooms wouldn't be proper, but it was a small comfort to know that he'd always be there in the morning to wake her, regardless.

Either way, it was a comfortable routine.

The day was warm and sunny when Anna stepped outside to make her way to the center of the homestead, a basket dangling from her elbow. When she arrived, the women were already hard at work, grinding corn into flour on the millstone; today they'd be making the bread that would feed every family on the homestead for the next week.

Anna took her usual seat between Bulda and Inga, the latter of which was heavily pregnant and about to burst any day. The Frankish princess had been surprised to learn that she was the same Inga whose dresses she had been given when she had first arrived at Svensholm; although, upon seeing her in such a state of breeding, Anna understood why she had no longer needed the dresses in the first place. She was taller than the other girls, but liked her dresses cut short, which is why the length had suited Anna's petite frame so perfectly. Her stark blue eyes were darker than Anna's own, and they sparkled with mirth when Anna sat down beside her.

"Overslept again?" the woman joked in Franconian with a flip of her ashy blonde hair, causing Anna to roll her eyes. The first few mornings at the homestead had been rough on the Frankish princess, as she had never been one to awaken before the sun, and now it was an inside joke among the women.

" _Nei (No)_ ," Anna replied defensively. "Kristoff had a hole in his breeches that needed mending before he went out to the fields, lest the full moon make an appearance in the daytime."

"Ladies, less talking, more _briðja (grinding),_ " Bulda chastised affectionately, pointing at the millstone with a thick finger. Anna and Inga giggled and resumed their work.

Inga leaned in towards Anna and lowered her voice to a whisper: "So, did Kristoff _bíta (bite)_ your _kunta (cunt),_ yet?"

Anna's face flushed red. She didn't know many Norse words yet, but she knew _that_ one, the dirty one, as Inga liked to throw it around frequently. Such a vulgar woman; Anna supposed that's why she liked her– that, and the fact that she was the only woman in the village besides Bulda who spoke Franconian well enough to converse.

" _Shhh,_ " Anna hushed her friend, glancing at Bulda out of the corner of her eye. "Kristoff's mother is sitting _right there._ She'll hear you."

Inga's eyes lit up. "So he _did_ finally make a dishonorable woman out of you?"

"No! It's not like that between us."

Inga _pfft'd_. "I knew he wouldn't touch you. He's much too honorable to take a woman before marriage."

Anna raised a brow and eyed the other woman's bulging belly. "And your husband wasn't?"

"My Sven was quite the _kveldúlfr (wolf who hunts at night)_ before I snared him," Inga replied smugly, dusting her hands on the front of her frock. "But never Kristoff. They may be as close as brothers, but they couldn't be more different."

Anna stared at her friend in disbelief. "You can't tell me that Kristoff has never been with a woman."

" _Nei_. He's never taken a _brúðr (bride),_ and he probably never will." Inga's eyes turned sad. "I don't blame him. He lost his family so young to the invading Danes, it's only natural that he'd never want to risk going through that again. Once is enough _mein (pain)_ for a lifetime– even for a man as _rammr (strong)_ as he is."

"But the joy of having a family far outweighs the chance of any misery, surely," Anna mumbled as her focus trailed out over the fields where the men were planting grain crops, searching for Kristoff's hunched back. When she spotted him, his golden hair shining and the muscles of his shoulders rippling in the sunlight, she felt her heart calm.

Inga shrugged. "He wouldn't know."

"That's why he needs someone to show him," Bulda interjected suddenly as she rounded the millstone; she was easily as strong as two or three women, and was able to single-handedly turn the wheel that rolled the stone over the grains as Anna and Inga placed them in the base. "And I think Anna is just the woman to do it. He's grown fond of you– I can tell."

"Oh, Bulda, you flatter me," Anna scoffed awkwardly with a guffaw, feeling her face redden even further. She damned her fair skin. "But you've raised a good man. You should be very proud of him."

Bulda beamed with pride. "Yes, he is a _drengr_."

"A what?"

" _Drengr,_ " Bulda repeated, pausing her work. "He knows right from wrong. Respectful, honorable, and always does the noble thing– that's my _sonr (son)_. I am very proud."

"It's the highest compliment you can pay someone in our society," Inga explained, leaning over to whisper in Anna's ear.

" " Anna repeated, committing the new word to her memory. "Where I'm from we just call that 'being a good Christian.'"

Almost immediately, the Frankish woman slapped a hand to cover her mouth, eyes widening in shame at the offensiveness of her own statement; her face burned as if she had stuck it directly into the coals of a cooking fire.

"Oh, goodness, I'm so sorry. I don't mean– I didn't mean– I'm–"

Bulda and Inga exchanged glances before bursting into respective fits of hysterics, clearly amused by Anna's blunder.

"You really are feisty," the older woman chuckled with a gleam in her eye. "It must be the fire in your hair.

"Is that what Kristoff told you?" Anna half-laughed as she nervously tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, which she was sure was as bright of a shade of scarlet as her face. "What else did he say?"

Bulda opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak she was cut off by a commotion from out beyond the fields. When Anna turned to look in the direction of the noise, she watched as a gang of Viking men on horseback crested the hill at the edge of the homestead, led by none other than the large, redheaded man whom Anna had previously presumed to be the chieftain.

Inga was up on her feet before the others; a protective hand came up instinctively to rest on her belly.

"Go," Bulda commanded from beside Anna in a hushed, panicked tone.

The young woman swallowed with difficulty. She knew she had to run– Kristoff had told her so, had made her promise.

But she had also promised Elsa that she wouldn't do anything to get herself killed, and then had gone right ahead and broken that promise by punching a Norseman– who surely wouldn't have thought twice about killing her– square in the face. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest, tortured by the indecision to run or to stay and make sure Kristoff would be alright.

"But, what about Kri–"

"Go, now!"

Bulda gave Anna a shove, causing her to stumble briefly forward. When she looked back to the place in the fields where she had last seen Kristoff, he was gone.

She didn't need to be told a third time. Anna hiked up her pale blue skirt and bolted in the opposite direction of the approaching horde, running as fast as her legs could carry her towards the trees behind Kristoff's house. She was reminded of Gerda's ghostly words to keep her eyes straight ahead, and this time she obeyed, never once stopping until she reached the pool in the middle of the wood.

Without the slightest hint of hesitation, Anna inhaled sharply and dove headfirst into the cold water.

–

"Kristoff!"

Kristoff's head snapped up at the sound of Sven's voice calling his name from the direction of the fields. The brown-haired man waved his arms to get his attention as he ran over to where Kristoff was returning from the river– where he had gone to have a drink and splash cool water on his face and neck, eager for a reprise from the backbreaking work of planting grain and for some sort of relief from the midday sun– and where he had accidentally fallen asleep when he had laid down in the cool grass along the bank to listen to the soothing rush and babble of the current.

Kristoff damned himself when he awoke to find that he had been out for over an hour, but he decided that he'd make up for it by skipping lunch and staying out in the fields an extra hour past sunset. He knew he wouldn't be as tired as he was if he and Anna hadn't stayed up talking so late the previous night, but he wouldn't have it any other way; having the Frankish girl around, even just to help with domestic duties, was a nice change of pace.

When at last the man reached Kristoff, he bent forward, resting his hands on his knees to support himself as he caught his breath. Even bowing, he was still almost as tall as Kristoff himself– just a head short.

"Sven, what is it?" Kristoff asked his friend in Norse.

"Ulf and his brothers," Sven panted. "They were here. They've just left."

Fresh fear trickled through Kristoff's veins. "What did they come for? And Hans? Was he with them?"

Sven shook his head regretfully. "I'm not sure."

"Anna." He uttered her name on instinct; she was in danger, and that knowledge alone caused Kristoff to lose himself, until the very core of his being was consumed by nothing but thoughts of her and her safety.

He turned to Sven: "Where's Anna?"

"I don't know– no one's seen her."

Glancing up, Kristoff looked towards the center of the homestead, squinting his eyes to see better, searching for her telltale red-gold braids amongst the women who chattered anxiously around the millstone, but she was no longer there; she was gone. His panicked heart skipped a beat.

Kristoff's mind spun as white-hot adrenaline began to pump through him like fire, engulfing everything in its wake.

 _Did they find her? Did they take her?_

 _Have I failed to protect her again?_

Kristoff knew his friend wouldn't be offended when he turned and ran without a word of farewell, leaving Sven forgotten behind him as he sprinted towards the trees.

 _Please, be safe._

He made it to the footpath behind his house and kept running, leaping and hurdling over fallen tree limbs and low-lying branches, unwilling to lose his momentum.

 _Please, don't let me be too late._

He didn't stop until he reached the edge of the pool, skidding to a stop with a spray of dirt and pebbles. His wide eyes scanned the glittering surface, searching for any sign of life beneath the water, hoping and praying for her freckled, smiling face to appear.

"Anna!" he called out, his evident desperation leaking into his voice. " _Anna!_ "

 _I can't lose her, I can't…_

A tree at the opposite end of the pool rustled with movement; gingerly, the redheaded girl stepped out from behind it, hugging herself. She was soaked to the bones, her sodden hair matted to her face and dripping down her neck and clavicle in rivers to disappear into her breasts, her woolen dress– heavy with water– clinging heavily to every curve of her trembling body.

"You took too long," she scolded, pouting her lips. "I can only hold my breath for so long."

A wave of intense relief washed over Kristoff. Before he could even process the feeling– his focus only on Anna and the fact that she was here, alive and unharmed– he stole forward, into the pool, and crossed it in haste to get to her, wading through the water with his burly stature as easily as one cuts through butter with a hot blade.

Anna continued her derision of Kristoff's timing. "My skin started to wrinkle, like a grape left out in the sun. Plus, that water is still _damn cold!_ I was already completely numb by the time I–"

Kristoff cut her off abruptly by crushing her to him when he reached her, pulling Anna into an embrace, hugging her warm, wet body against himself tightly as his arms wrapped around her back and held her there. He had never touched her before– save for the occasional, accidental brushing of hands whenever they worked together– and had never even dared to dream of it prior to this moment, but it seemed natural now, considering the circumstances. She felt so good in his arms– with her head tucked beneath his chin, her cheek resting against his heartbeat– that it both thrilled and terrified him at the same time.

"I'm sorry, _Ǫndōttr Brók_ , I'm so sorry– I should have been here sooner," he murmured into her damp hair, squeezing her tighter to him. " _Fyrirgef mik (Forgive me)._ "

Anna tensed before relaxing into him, allowing herself to be held. "Of course. There's nothing to forgive, Kristoff– but only if you finally tell me what _Ǫndōttr Brók_ means."

Kristoff pulled back and smiled down at his companion. _Ǫndōttr Brók_ was the affectionate pet name he called his princess whenever she was acting brave or reckless or stubborn; he liked to tease her with it, and watch the way she riled up and flustered when he refused to tell her what it meant. It was like a little game between them, one that always ended with either one or both of them blushing.

" _Ǫndōttr Brók,_ " he started, repeating his nickname for her as he gazed into her blue eyes and reached up to brush the waterlogged curtain of hair away from her face. "Means 'Feisty Pants.'"

–

 **A/N: Ǫndōttr Brók literally actually means "Fiery Breeches," which is even funnier tbh.**


	11. Chapter 11

_Vits er þörf (Wits are a necessity)_

 _þeims viða ratar (For the one who travels far and wide)_

 _dælt er heima hvat (For everything is all too easy at home);_

 _at augabragði verðr (He becomes a laughing stock)_

 _sá er ekki kann (The man who knows nothing)_

 _ok með snotrum sitr (But sits among wise men anyway)_

 _Hávamál_

–

Everything had changed for Elsa since that first night behind the bathhouse, when she had snuck out to meet with Hans.

That night, upon returning to the chieftain's longhouse, she found that Ulf had been waiting for her. He didn't ask where she had been or what she had been up to, but only grinned a sickly sweet grin upon seeing the Frankish princess enter. Although she felt the usual fear begin to run its course, something else inside of her sparked; something new, something bright, something dangerous. She was afraid, but as Ulf stepped towards her, his rough, filthy hands outstretched to caress whichever part of her body he felt entitled to caress, she squeezed her eyes shut and a vision of Hans's green irises suddenly flashed across her mind's eye; the orbs shifted as they watched her, his words echoing through her psyche.

 _Put a face to your hate… someone else to blame other than yourself for the shitty hand you've been dealt._

Her head throbbed and her fingertips burned. When she opened her eyes, Ulf had stopped his advance, and was holding his hands out in front of himself, turning them over to inspect them front-and-back; to Elsa's surprise, they shimmered in the yellow light of the fire, encased in a thin layer of ice.

The second night, after a day-long imprisonment inside the house under the watchful eye of two of Ulf's brothers, the chieftain tried to lay with her again when he returned from his chiefly errands, pushing Elsa backwards onto the bed. The same fear channeled through her once more, from her heart to her hands and the ends of her toes, and she gripped the pelts beneath her to try to anchor herself through the sea of uncertainty. She closed her eyes and Hans's bearded face was there once more, watching her, berating her, his voice like a snake's hiss in her ear.

 _Unmanliness is seen as a particularly shameful trait to have._

Before she could stop it, ice snaked outward from Elsa's fingertips, her fear and anxiety escaping from her body in the only way it had ever known how, until the Frankish princess felt a chill against her back. When she opened her eyes and looked down, she gasped at the realization that the entire bed beneath her had been frozen solid by her doing. From where he stood, towering over her, Ulf's gray-green eyes glittered in reverence at the sight; without a word, he took a step back, away from her.

But he was undeterred.

On the third night, he returned earlier than usual; his moves this time were cautious, calculated, not nearly as aggressive as his previous attempts. Elsa tried to push him back, away from her, but he was too large and she was too weak; he hardly budged. He was so close, that Elsa could smell the rotten stench of fish on his breath. The back of his fingers came up between them to trail his knuckles across her cheek, over her jaw, down her neck and along the side of her covered breast and ribs, causing her body to hum with energy.

This time, Elsa didn't close her eyes. She dared to look up, directly into the gray-green eyes of the man who wanted to ruin her, as she heard her own voice echo Hans' words through her head.

 _There's no such thing as survival here; there's only the strong, and the dead._

A hand snapped out, and before Elsa knew what she was doing, she found herself gripping Ulf's wrist in an iron vice. Snow began to fall around them, and the Frankish princess knew before she even looked that she had frozen the entire interior of the longhouse; every pelt on the wall glistened like glass and the ceiling cracked with the sound of crystallizing ice. The floor was dusted with a layer of powdery snow that drifted in soft, tiny tendrils around her slippered feet. But she didn't feel cold; as Hans's smug, smirking face grinned across her psyche, she felt blistering hot.

Raising both hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender, Ulf bowed out of the longhouse and didn't return until the following day. When he did return, he made no attempt to bed her, and an unspoken understanding passed between the two; Elsa had won– for now.

Somehow, she held a power over the chieftain, both literally and figuratively, just as Hans was somehow holding sway over her mind.

 _I had no choice but to become one of those Northern savages that all you Franks believe us to be._

–

Elsa was soon allowed to come and go as she pleased. She was no longer given chores, but left to her own devices. She stayed in the chieftain's house, where during the day they cohabited in tense, but peaceful, silence. At night, he left her to sleep in the longhouse alone. She didn't know where he went, and frankly, she didn't care.

Her newfound "freedom" to leave the longhouse was a nice change of pace, although she didn't have anywhere to go in particular and kept to herself. Once she dared to start exploring, to test the limits of how far she was allowed to wander, she found that she enjoyed going to the beach and watching the water that lapped at her feet, where she'd think about her parents and her sister and her homeland somewhere on the other side of the horizon until the sun went down.

Elsa stepped outside and inhaled sharply through her nose, enjoying the fresh, coastal air in lieu of the stuffy atmosphere of the longhouse. It was already dusk, every surface and structure awash in yellow-pink light; very few people milled about, as most had already retired to either their homes or the mead hall for the evening, and that made sunset the Frankish woman's favorite time of day to go to the beach.

She made her way there quickly, making sure to keep her head down. Word of her icy apparitions had apparently spread to every corner of the settlement in the weeks since she'd arrived, and the people whispered and gasped whenever she walked past. Either way, it was of no matter of consequence to the Frankish princess; as long as it kept people away from her, Elsa was content.

The shore was devoid of life, as it usually was at this time of day, and Elsa relished in the solitude. The sun had only just begun to dip below the horizon, setting the sea alight with bright red and gold, as though it were on fire. She slipped her shoes off and dug her toes into the rough sand, revelling in the feel of the grit on her delicate skin. She trained her eyes on the horizon, trying her damnedest to see Francia beyond the waves, but she never could, no matter how hard she tried. Home was much too far now.

A hand was suddenly over her mouth and an arm wound around her waist, pulling her back before she could shriek. She felt her fingertips begin to itch, her hands trembling and blood cold, as the realization that she was being taken hit her, but before her tangible fear could escape from her she was spun around, and found herself face-to-face with the man whose face haunted her dreams.

"Hans," Elsa breathed out in surprise, although the sound was muffled by his hand still over her mouth. Carefully, he peeled it away and pulled back from her, and it was then that Elsa noticed that he seemed… disappointed?

"Why– why are you looking at me like that?"

Hans shrugged, but smirked, scratching at his beard. "Wanted to see if you'd freeze my balls the same way you froze Ulf's."

Elsa's fear quickly melted away to her usual contempt.

"I haven't seen you since our last meeting over two weeks ago, and that's how you choose to greet me?" She crossed her arms over her chest and looked the man up and down with disdainful blue eyes. "Color me unsurprised."

"Aw, were you _lonely,_ Princess?" Hans teased, pouting dramatically. "Did you miss me? Were you hoping I'd come to see you?"

Elsa stared at the man, mouth agape in disbelief. Was he… flirting with her? No, he couldn't be– he was just teasing her.

 _The bastard._

"No," Elsa snapped. She set her face as sternly as she could. "Not that you'd be willing to come around, anyway; you told me yourself how afraid you are of your brother. Because you're a _coward,_ in every meaning of the word."

Hans's jaw visibly clenched. "This again? I told you the last time, Princess, I'm no coward. Keep pushing me and I'll show you just how _daring_ I can be."

Elsa's heart skipped a beat at his thinly-veiled threat, but she didn't allow her reaction to show– despite the fact that his dangerous, childish attitude perturbed her to no end, striking her to her very core, she somehow managed to save face in front of him.

"Spin it any way you want, but you're still a coward." Elsa stated defiantly. "I saved your life, and you couldn't even be bothered to save mine."

Hans's eyes narrowed to slits and he took a malicious step forward, towards her. "What did you think I was arguing with my brother about about back in Francia?"

She remembered that the men had exchanged some choice, foreign-sounding words as the larger man had bound Elsa's wrists with rope, but Elsa shrugged and didn't back down or step back, daring to look him directly in the eye, matching his intensity with her own. "I assume that you were trying to claim me for your own, I suppose. And when that didn't work, you went for my sister."

His eyes narrowed at her even further; when he spoke, his voice was incredibly controlled. "I was trying to convince Ulf to let you go, instead of taking you as his prisoner. To leave you behind in the South."

The confession hit her in the gut like a blow and Elsa visibly recoiled at his statement; she had to take a step backwards to steady herself.

"You… did what?"

"You saved my life, and I tried to repay the debt." Hans pursed his lips. "Unfortunately, there is no reasoning with my brother. Not when he's captured a beauty such as you, and especially not if I had eyes on you first. He's thoroughly enjoyed rubbing that particular fact in my face at every turn."

Elsa's heartbeat had become erratic and she felt her face involuntarily blush at his indirect appreciation of her looks. She hoped that Hans didn't notice in the dark that was rapidly falling.

 _Damn him._

A beat of silence passed between them, punctuated only by the lull of the waves against the sand and the cry of a seabird as it flew overhead. Thousands of ideas raced through Elsa's mind, each one like a thread, and they tangled and knotted until she couldn't follow a single one nor discern one end from another, though they all seemed to share a common knot.

She refused to think on it further.

"Well, as I can see, that debt is yet to be repaid," Elsa bit out at last, trying to sound as bold as possible. Her angry fists shook at her sides. "Why did you come here, Hans? Do you enjoy taunting me? Getting a kick out of torturing me with your presence?"

To Elsa's surprise, his face softened and he shook his head.

"No. I came to give you… this."

Hans flipped up his tunic and reached into the waist of his trousers, revealing pale skin and a trail of fine, red hairs that disappeared below the hem, causing Elsa's breath to hitch in her throat and her body to grow warm at the sight, but he only produced a blade from his waistband. The princess recognized it immediately as her blade– the one her father had given her, with rubies embedded in the handle.

The one she had tried and failed to slay the Viking man with, and had left behind when she fled in fright.

"I had to wait for Ulf to leave to be sure that it was safe to get this back to you," Hans explained, holding it out to her by the blade. Gratefully, Elsa took it by the handle.

"Are you sure that you've thought this through?" Elsa half-joked as she held the dagger up in front of herself. "After all, I do still want to slit your throat for what you did to my sister."

Hans sighed and gave Elsa a pointed look. "If it's any consolation, I did not get the chance to lay with your sister. She saw to that when she broke my nose."

Elsa snorted– an involuntary, undignified snort– and Hans huffed out loud in response.

"I know you don't believe me, but I _do_ regret ever putting my hands on her. Had I known she was the sister of the woman who had saved my life… I would have done everything in my power to free you both, as little power as I have."

He seemed to be sincere. Elsa's face fell and she was pensive for a moment, mulling over his words. Truth be told, she had been mulling over his words from the last time they had spoken, as well. She didn't want to admit that he was right, but he had struck a chord within her; perhaps it was high time that she stopped playing the victim and learned to take control of her own destiny.

Seeing Hans shirk accountability to blame his own actions on outside forces made her sick; she didn't want to be anything like him.

A plan had begun to hatch in her mind, ever since their meeting behind the bathhouse. Ever since she had discovered that she had some sort of supernatural defense against the chieftain who had tried to overpower her on more than one occasion.

"You still could," she said at last.

"I still could what?"

"Help to free me. It's not too late."

"And how am I to do that?" Hans chuckled, amused. "Challenge my brother to a _holmgang?_ "

Filled with a newfound bravery, a purpose, Elsa stepped forward until she stood only a pace from the Viking man, gripping her dagger with white knuckles.

"Teach me how," she commanded, unblinking. "Teach me to fight. Teach me the language. I want to be as formidable as any of those men who took me against my will, who brought me here. Teach me how to be a proper Viking, and when the time comes, I'll free myself– without your help."

Hans eyed her up and down, and if Elsa didn't know any better, she would almost think that he was impressed.

His eyes glinted with something sinister. "Are you sure that you're ready to learn?

"Yes." Elsa's sharp gaze turned icy, like the steel of a cold blade; her will was resolute, as hard as diamond. "I'm through with simply surviving."


	12. Chapter 12

_I know it's me that's supposed to love you_

 _And when I'm home you know I got you_

 _Is there somebody who can watch you?_

 _The 1975, "Is There Somebody Who Can Watch You"_

–

The sky outside was dark by the time Kristoff returned to the house. Anna was sitting before the fire, wrapped in a pelt; although she had changed her gown and her hair was nearly dried, she still felt an unexplainable chill that she hadn't been able to shake since the afternoon– since Kristoff had released her from his safe, warm embrace. She remembered the way his muscular arms had wrapped around her so protectively, so possessively, and felt her womb jolt at the memory. The intensity of his eyes as he had crossed the pool to get to her burned into her mind, causing her entire body to tingle and tremble, from her scalp down to her toes. It was a new feeling, but one that she had been experiencing with increasing potency with each passing day that she spent with Kristoff.

Shaking her head to clear it, she tried to distract herself from images of Kristoff– soaking wet and holding her– by nervously toying with a curl of ginger hair between her fingers; her hair had dried without being brushed or braided, and so it fell in ringlets over her face and shoulders, making her appear as wild as she felt. Her gray dress– the only clean one she had left, and the one that Inga had told her was her favorite– was low cut and trimmed in reindeer fur, which was a very Northern take on Frankish style. Her feet were still bare, as she had yet to make a pair of proper slippers for herself.

If her mother or father were there, they'd surely have a fit over her state of impropriety.

When the tall, blond Norseman entered, her blue eyes darted to him immediately, meeting his tired, honeyed gaze. She wanted to jump up and run to him, to hold him the same way he had held her and thank him for his concern and his commitment to protecting her life, but she stayed rooted to her seat; the expression on his face frightened her.

"Do they know I'm here?" Anna asked, forcing her voice to be steady and brave, for him as much as for herself. "Will they come back for me?"

Kristoff shook his head. " _Nei_ , they… they didn't come for you."

"Oh." Anna blinked her eyes in surprise. Of the million or more things she had expected him to say, the possibility that the Viking men had not come to take her away after all was not one of them. "What did they come for, then, if not for me?"

The larger man shuffled uneasily on his feet, resting his hands at his hips as he tilted his chin downward to focus on the floor. "Ulf came to ask the shaman… my grandfather… about your sister."

 _Elsa._

Anna had thought of her sister every day since she'd left her behind at the Viking settlement and said a prayer for her wellbeing and survival every night before she slept. As far as Anna knew, she was the chieftain's woman, had always been and still was. So why would he bother to come out to Svensholm just to ask a spiritual old man about her?

Anna didn't know, but she had a feeling that it couldn't be good.

The Frankish woman rose, allowing the pelt to fall from her shoulders.

"I want to speak with him, Kristoff. Please."

–

Grand Pabbie's dwelling on the outskirts of the homestead was small, and round, a far cry from the average length and height of the other longhouses. His cooking fire alone took up most of the center of the room, which was bare save for a bedroll against the opposite wall and an iron cauldron.

Even Anna had to duck as they entered, following Kristoff over to the fire, before which sat his grandfather on the floor with his legs crossed. He was a thin, lanky man, dressed in a sleeveless, dark green tunic, with messy gray hair and faded runes etched into his wrinkled and spotted skin. He glanced up from his work at the fire to welcome his visitors, his once-brown eyes clouded over with age, and smiled upon seeing his grandson.

When his eyes trained on Anna, they seemed to sparkle.

"I knew you would come," the elderly man crooned in a gravelly voice upon seeing her.

"You did?" Anna asked rhetorically, caught off-guard by the declaration. She figured that Kristoff must have told him ahead of time that they'd be coming by.

"Yes," he murmured, nodding as he turned his attention back to the flames in front of him. "I knew that you would come to the North."

Anna shot Kristoff a troubled look, who only lifted and dropped his shoulders in response.

"Come, child. Sit."

Anna did as she was bid and knelt before the fire, leaving enough space for another person between herself and Grand Pabbie. Kristoff crouched on her other side, resting his elbow on his knee.

"You want to know about your sister," he mused without looking at her.

Anna blinked, surprised that he knew. "Yes. Kristoff told me that the men who were here earlier came to ask you about her."

Despite her best attempts to be still, she found herself twisting and fidgeting her fingers in her lap. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, willing herself to continue.

"I was wondering if you could tell me what you told them."

She inwardly thanked all of the gods that she knew of that Kristoff was here, beside her; without his presence to reassure her, she might have already run out screaming into the woods by now. She wanted to know about her sister, desperately, but what if she wasn't ready to hear the true extent of her sister's fate?

As if he could read her mind, Kristoff brought a comforting hand up to rest on her shoulder, and Anna felt her tense limbs relax at the gesture.

The shaman grunted, re-adjusting himself in his spot on the floor before speaking. "The eldest daughter of Agnarr and Iduna of the Franks is destined to marry the son of Dagr and bear his child; a son, who will become the next great chieftain of Hordafylke and lead this land forward into an era of peace and prosperity for many centuries."

Anna blinked slowly, absorbing his words. "The son of Dagger?"

" _Dagr,_ " Kristoff corrected. "Ulf's father. He was the leader of the Danes until he died in battle about ten years ago. The one who invaded this land. Now his eldest son is the chieftain."

"The man who has Elsa."

Kristoff nodded his confirmation.

"So… he wants to marry her and put his babe in her?" Anna's vision began to swim and she felt ill. Poor Elsa. She was never a fighter– not in the way that Anna was, anyway. She knew that her sister would end up having no choice in the matter.

She wanted to ask more questions, especially to find out what he had meant about her coming to the North, when they were interrupted by the abrupt arrival of a visitor, who threw open the door flap with such fervor that Anna was afraid for a moment that the corner of the tapestry would touch the flames and catch fire.

When the Frankish princess looked up, she recognized Kristoff's father, Cliff– a muscular, barrel-bodied man almost as large as Kristoff, with light brown hair and wide, hazel eyes– as he burst through the door, panting. His beige-colored tunic was smeared with blood– fresh blood– and Anna's stomach lurched at the sight of it.

Kristoff jumped to his feet.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked his father in Norse, tone thick with concern.

"It's Inga," Cliff panted, turning to address Anna in broken Franconian. "Bulda sent me to fetch you. She needs you."

A feeling of foreboding washed over Anna and her gut fell like a rock to the bottom of her abdomen. She rose to stand.

"Is she alright?"

Cliff gulped. "It's the baby. It's coming."

–

She'd lost too much blood. Anna had never seen so much blood before.

After hours of struggling through her labor, Inga had given birth to a pink, screaming baby girl. Anna had never aided in a birth before, but she did as the other ladies commanded, fetching fresh linens and soaking them in boiling water as needed. Near the end, she'd held Inga's hand and praised her for being so courageous, so strong, so brave; it was then, when the first cry of her child had rung out through the air of the longhouse, that Inga's dark blue eyes had rolled back into her head and closed. They never reopened.

It took until well after midnight for Bulda to console Anna enough to take her home to Kristoff's house. No words were said as Bulda hugged Anna one last time before leaving, shooting her son a sorrowful look before heading to her own home to begin sewing Inga's funeral clothes.

Kristoff didn't know what to say, and so he didn't say anything, but only moved to the corner of the room to pour Anna a drink. When he returned, she hadn't moved from where she stood planted just inside the doorway. He managed to coax her over by the fire and handed her a wooden stein, but Anna didn't realize it until she was already sitting, her mind and body too numb to process anything.

Kristoff took a long drink from his own mug, and so Anna mindlessly followed suit; the liquid was sweet, like honey, and surprisingly intoxicating. As soon as it hit her empty stomach she felt her blood begin to hum in her veins, soothing her jittery nerves.

They sat in silence for some time, Anna's unblinking eyes only half-focused on the flames that danced and crackled and flickered before her; when she closed her eyes, she saw her friend's smiling face behind her eyelids. When she opened them, she saw her friend's blood on her dress.

"A boy or a girl?" Kristoff asked, already knowing the answer, but at least it was something to say to break through the quiet of the air between them.

"A girl," Anna rasped as she stared into the fire. Her throat was raw from crying. "A beautiful, healthy girl."

Her face crumpled then, remembering the way that Sven had cried when Bulda had handed his new daughter to him, how he had cradled her in his arms and rocked her and shushed her, even as tears rolled down his tanned face in rivers.

"I've never seen a man so broken," Anna whispered. She choked back a sob and brought the rim of her mug to her lips. Although she was parched, she couldn't bring herself to take another sip. She set the stein back on her lap.

"I have."

Her bloodshot eyes flicked to Kristoff, who still avoided her gaze; she knew that he was referring to himself, and the family he had lost as a child. He continued speaking.

"But Sven's tough. Tougher than all of the Danes combined. He'll get through it."

"And you?" Anna asked, turning her whole head to face him, her mussed, sweat-dampened curls sticking to her cheeks and neck. "Have _you_ gotten through it?"

Kristoff's eyes seemed to darken momentarily, but Anna couldn't be sure that it wasn't just a trick of the light.

"This life is suffering," he explained slowly. "The gods have ensured us of that. We are no more in control of our destiny than we are able to change the weather or ensure a good harvest. There's not much we can do but to try to reduce how much suffering we endure."

"That's why you refuse to marry," Anna retaliated quietly. "You're trying to avoid more suffering. Is that it?"

They regarded each other, and Anna noticed for the first time the abject sadness within Kristoff's amber irises. She supposed that she always knew that it was there, but it had always been hidden, stashed out of view and covered over by a layer of fearlessness and warmth. Kristoff looked vulnerable, and seeing him so exposed almost caused Anna to weep for him in her exhausted, emotional state.

When Kristoff spoke at last, the vulnerability had disappeared from his eyes once more, but the usual warmth had not yet returned. "You should get some rest, _Ǫndōttr Brók._ "

The burly man rose as if to leave, and Anna was immediately filled with a sense of dread. She found that she couldn't bear the thought of them separating; not now, not for the night, not ever again. Maybe it was just her emotions causing her to not be able to think straight, but she knew that she needed him with her. Always.

"You don't have to sleep in the stable," Anna interjected suddenly, her voice coming in tremors, her eyes misty. "Don't leave me alone tonight, Kristoff. Please. Stay with me."

Kristoff seemed to hesitate, averting his eyes as he considered her plea. An ember snapped in the fireplace, the only sound in the room as Anna watched his indecision play out across his features, her eyes boring into him, into his very soul. It wasn't proper, she knew, but that didn't matter anymore.

Just as she thought her already broken heart was going to break even further, he met her gaze and nodded.

Anna shakily stood from her stool and made her way over to where she kept her clothes– Inga's clothes– and pulled out the ivory linen shift she used for sleeping in. She turned to face Kristoff, who was still facing her and watching her with an unreadable expression, and wondered whether or not he would watch her undress, but after a beat he turned his back to the princess so that she could change out of her dirtied, blood-stained gown in relative privacy.

When she turned back around, she was shocked to see that Kristoff was now shirtless, dressed in nothing but his dark woolen pants. She had seen his bare torso many times before, whether he was working in the fields or chopping wood for their fire or even the one time she had accidentally stumbled upon him bathing in the pool while she had been picking forest flowers for garlands, but this time her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. It was as though she were seeing him for the first time.

His golden, shoulder-length locs tickled the top of his back, cascading like a lion's mane over his shoulder muscles. The skin of his back was tanned from days working in the sun and rippled with sinew, each crevice and turn a tantalizing place for Anna to place her fingertips if she so dared. His muscles tapered into a "V" at his waist that disappeared below the top of his trousers, where they inevitably fanned out into his toned buttocks and powerful thighs– that lower part of him that she had yet to see.

After a minute of silence, he turned around to face Anna once again and caught her staring, but she didn't look away.

Neither did he.

He seemed to be watching her, the way an animal watches its prey, his eyes filled with the same intensity as earlier, but there was a softness to it that made Anna unafraid; she was sure, deep down in her core, that he'd never hurt her. His light brown eyes roved over her face, and her turquoise blues did the same, taking in the sight of his broad forehead, his furrowed brows, his strong, sun-reddened nose, his beard of burnished gold. Anna wondered, if she touched his beard, whether the hairs would be soft or scratchy.

All of a sudden, she wanted to know more than anything.

Kristoff broke eye contact first, when he moved over to the bed and sat down upon it. Because it was summer, and the nights were warm, there was no need to get beneath a pelt. Anna followed, sitting on her own side– now that she had a side designated as her own. Kristoff waited for her to take the lead, to set the pace and the tone of how this arrangement was going to happen.

Slowly, heart hammering, Anna laid down on her side, with her back to Kristoff, and slipped her hands beneath her head, using her palms as a pillow. She felt the pallet shift and then was acutely aware of a body behind her, his warmth radiating in the space he maintained between them, burning her back. When he made no effort to move closer to her, Anna's body scooted backwards of its own accord, and she felt Kristoff freeze when at last her body was aligned with his.

"Hold me," she begged, the words barely audible.

She didn't need to ask twice, as Kristoff's thick arms wrapped around her almost immediately, as though she had been gradually breaking down his defenses until they finally crumbled with those final two words. His head tucked against the back of her shoulder to settle in for sleep, pressing his damp forehead to the spot at the base of her neck, his hot breath collecting in the space between her spine and his mouth; she shuddered at the sensation and her eyelids inadvertently fluttered shut.

She no longer had to wonder whether or not Kristoff's beard was scratchy or soft– it was both.


	13. Chapter 13

_You only know what I want you to_

 _I know everything you don't want me to_

 _Oh, your mouth is poison_

 _Your mouth is wine_

 _You think your dreams are the same as mine_

 _The Civil Wars, "Poison & Wine"_

–

The sound of clanging metal echoed through the air, overpowering the whisper of the waves and the gulls that cawed overhead. The setting sun cast everything in ominous red, setting the scene for Hans and Elsa's duel.

They fought on the far end of the beach, far enough from the settlement to not be heard, hidden from any possible passersby by the heavy greenery that grew around this particular patch of shore. Anyone who heard the noise of a battle and decided to come investigate would have trouble navigating the steep drop and knotty roots down to the beach, unless they came straight from the village and along the shore itself, at which point either combatant would have a direct line of sight to see them coming from over a mile away.

Her entire body hurt, her sore and burning sinew screaming for relief, but Elsa knew that she couldn't stop. Although Hans had given her a smaller, lighter sword to start, it was still too heavy for her untrained muscles, despite having worked at it nearly every night for a month.

He caught her off-balance and struck a heavy-handed blow from his left, knocking Elsa down to the wet sand, her blade tumbling out of her grip. She took a moment on her hands and knees to catch her breath, panting heavily; when she rotated her aching body to get up, she saw Hans's outstretched hand to help her, and she took it gratefully.

"Watch your stance," Hans scolded, using her misstep as a teaching moment. "When you keep your feet at least shoulder-width apart, you'll have better balance and stability."

At first, Elsa hadn't taken kindly to Hans's instruction; it had taken her some time to realize that he wasn't insulting her, and she had to stop being defensive every time that he criticized her to take his advices as genuine.

She still had her pride, however– or, rather, what was left of it.

" _Saurig víking skítkarl (Dirty Viking bastard),_ " Elsa muttered tauntingly under her breath, using one of the choice Norse curses that Hans had taught her, among other phrases. After only a month under his tutelage, she could speak entire sentences in the Viking language, and even hold basic conversations– not that she had anyone to speak to other than Ulf, and their interactions were brief. She still spoke to Hans and Frida, the slave girl, in Franconian.

" _Þú berð eins ok genta (You fight like a woman),_ " Hans countered with the tiniest hint of a smile.

Elsa's steely facade broke and she scoffed. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I _am_ a woman."

"Oh, believe me, Princess– I've noticed." Hans raised a flirtatious eyebrow. Elsa's face, which surely looked as undignified as she felt, immediately flushed and she lunged forward with her sword once more.

" _Svín (Pig)!_ "

Hans easily sidestepped her passionate blow and she stumbled forward, past him, catching herself before she tripped over her own slippers.

"Stay in control of your emotions," Hans admonished, shooting her a look that sent a ripple of shame coursing through Elsa's body.

"Conceal, don't feel," Elsa chanted with a sigh. "I know that mantra only all too well."

"Concealing" had been her father's method for controlling her inexplicable powers when she was younger.

"No, no, no– _feel_. Always allow yourself to feel." Hans moved over until he was face-to-face with the white-haired woman, who dared to gaze up into his green eyes; they flashed like fire in the dying light of day. "It's just the conceal part that needs work. Never let your opponent know what you're feeling– that gives them the upper hand."

The redheaded Viking was pensive before speaking again. "And, to be completely honest with you, that's the part that I struggle with the most myself."

The light in his eyes shifted, and the intensity in his green irises seemed to soften, before Elsa turned away to look at the setting sun on the horizon. She rubbed her arms as if she were cold, but she actually felt scalding hot.

"I should be going," she murmured over her shoulder. "It's getting late. I don't want Ulf to become suspicious."

Hans nodded and took a step back, as if giving her permission to leave, although he seemed reluctant to let her go.

"Until tomorrow, Princess."

–

When Elsa returned to the longhouse, she half-expected Ulf to still be at the mead hall with his men, but he was waiting for her by the fire instead, with Frida standing by his side. As Elsa entered, closing and barring the door behind herself, he rose to greet her.

" _Mín Dróttning (My Queen),_ " he crooned, baring his yellowed teeth in what must have been an attempt at a smile. Elsa didn't know what the words meant, as she had never heard him speak them before, but she didn't bother asking Frida for a translation.

" _Heil og sæl (Health and happiness),_ " Elsa greeted flatly in return, in the traditional Northern greeting, although she wished him neither health nor happiness.

Ulf began speaking, low and murmuring; he leaned towards Frida but kept his gray-green eyes trained on Elsa. When he had finished saying his piece, Frida took a breath to begin speaking.

"My lord says that he has been to see the shaman about you."

Elsa didn't flinch or otherwise respond to the news, and so the chieftain continued speaking, as the _thrall (slave)_ girl translated his words to Franconian.

"He says that, when he returns from the next raid, he will make you his–" Frida's tiny, girlish voice choked on the last word, "– his wife."

Anger stabbed through Elsa's gut like a blade and she felt her skin heat up, her fingers itching to create ice, but she stayed rooted to her spot by the door.

"You tell my lord that he will do no such thing," Elsa commanded, addressing Frida but keeping her icy blue eyes focused on Ulf, daring him to look away first. "I will be no man's wife– _especially_ not his."

Frida swallowed fearfully before relaying Elsa's words to Ulf in the Viking tongue; she knew he had understood when a scowl darkened his features.

When his reply came, it caused Frida to squeak in fright before she spoke again.

"He says you will. Or else he'll lay with your sister and then... kill her."

Elsa's heart skipped a beat out of fear but she hardened her expression, staring her captor down. He was bluffing– he had to be. None of the Norsemen but Hans knew that Anna was her sister, or had any idea of where she had fled to after she had escaped from Hans. Even Elsa herself didn't know.

 _Did Hans tell his brother about Anna?_

Elsa didn't know the young Viking that well, but she trusted him enough to know that he wouldn't out her secret like that.

 _Ulf_ must _be bluffing._

Thinking fast, the Frankish princess made up a lie, setting her face to appear unaffected by his threat.

 _Conceal, don't feel._

 _No– feel, but conceal._

"I don't have a sister," Elsa said as smoothly as she could, allowing the words to flow from her lips as easily as though they were the truth. "She died, years ago, of consumption."

Ulf's grin turned into a snarl then, and he began rambling faster than Frida could keep up.

"He says you lie. He says he's seen her, living amongst the _karls (common folk)_ in Svensholm, with fire in her hair and the sea in her eyes. He says she looks like you."

A trembling started in Elsa's core, radiating outward, and she found it harder and harder to breathe as her throat began to constrict; instinctively, her hands came up to her own throat. Anna was alive– and nearby– but she wasn't safe.

If only Elsa had known.

But if she _had_ known, then what would she have done? Escaped on her own, of her own volition, to find her? Helped them make their way back to Francia? No, she knew that she would've done what she had always done; whatever it took to simply survive.

Hans was right– Elsa was a coward.

Her body's visible response to his threat was all the confirmation that the chieftain needed, as his snarl transformed back into his usual sickly smile. He stepped forward to move beside her and paused, the silver beads in his auburn locs tinkling against his earrings, and dared to bring a hand up to rest on Elsa's shoulder.

He leaned down then and whispered something in Elsa's ear that caused the Frankish princess to gasp and cover her mouth with her hands, her eyes widening at his words.

" _Do you think Hans will approve of our marriage?_ " Ulf hissed in the Norse language. " _My brother is not as clever as he thinks he is._ "

He knew. He knew that she met with Hans. Elsa felt weak and her knees buckled at the revelation, but she managed to stay upright, her pride refusing to allow such a display of weakness in the face of her enemy.

The chieftain gave Elsa a farewell pat on her shoulder before opening the door behind her and exiting through it, shutting it closed behind him with a resounding slam.

As soon as he was gone, Elsa shrieked and collapsed to the floor in a flurry of snow; all the fight she had worked so hard to build within herself had been taken from her with a single blow. Crying out in frustration, she smashed a fist to the earthen floor, bruising her delicate hand.

She was nowhere near strong enough to take on Ulf herself, and marrying him would surely be the death of her; but, if she refused to marry Ulf, then her sister would be the one to suffer– because of her. Because of her weakness.

 _Conceal– don't feel._

 _Don't feel._

 _Feel._

It was all that she could do. She was still as powerless as ever.


	14. Chapter 14

_Fingertips, northern lights_

 _Tracing colors right through the sky_

 _Underneath a lullaby_

 _I never felt as blissful as I do here_

 _Cider Sky, "Northern Lights"_

–

The mid-summer sun was warm on Anna's face, and she relished in its light as she tipped her face to the sky, absorbing it into her skin. Growing up in Francia, any amount of time she spent out in the summer sun usually left her fair complexion red and sore, but since arriving to the North the parts of her body not covered by her dresses had gradually taken on a bronze, sun-kissed glow that almost matched Kristoff's own tanned skin.

Anna rode on the back of Kristoff's reindeer as he walked alongside it, leading it to wherever they were going. They trotted along the forest path at a leisurely place; Kristoff couldn't afford a horse, and so he made do with the beast that he had, although it was not nearly as fast or strong as a proper stallion or mare.

Still, Anna found it to be a charming way to get around.

They had been travelling for nearly an hour already, in the opposite direction of the Viking settlement. The air was filled with the sounds of their own footsteps in harmony with the songbirds and other woodland critters that chattered and squeaked in the woods surrounding them. Every so often the wooden longbow that Kristoff carried, slung across his back, clattered against the matching quiver of arrows, startling Anna from her reverie, before she resumed wondering when they would reach their destination.

"Almost there," Kristoff said softly, as though he could read her thoughts.

The trees began to thin out, and soon enough they found themselves entering a clearing at the edge of a large, sapphire lake, the calm surface of which glittered in the sunlight. The valley seemed to stretch on forever, and was surrounded on all sides by an infinite blue sky and snow-capped mountains, their bases green and lush with colorful, fragrant flowers dotting the grass like stars.

"Kristoff," Anna breathed as she took in the scenery surrounding them, turning her head deliberately as her ride slowed to a stop. "This place is incredible. I mean, we have some beautiful views back in Francia, but nothing like this."

"You like it?" Kristoff asked rhetorically, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Anna slid from the reindeer's back to plant both of her bare feet in the cool grass. " _Like_ it? I wish that we could live here."

I wish that _we_ could live here.

The words left her lips before she could stop them, but in the thick silence between them that followed, she realized that she had meant each one from the heart.

Over the past month, Anna had caught herself referring with increasing frequency to "we" rather than simply "I" whenever she spoke. They had continued to share a bed every night since the first, and Kristoff had even started to include her in more of the decision-making around the homestead, as he had gradually come to trust her judgement in most matters. Their late-night talks around the fire were rarely ever punctuated by the long, unsure lulls that had plagued their first few conversations anymore– or, if there was a break in the conversation now, it was meaningful and contented. They were comfortable enough with one another to not always feel compelled to fill the quiet or suffer in its uncertainty.

Something was blossoming between them, a sleeping bud waiting to bloom, but they dared not speak of it. They were practically husband and wife– without the marital relations.

The thought made Anna's skin burn hotter than the afternoon sun did.

After setting his animal at the edge of the water to drink, Kristoff made his way back over to Anna and pulled the bow from his back. In one swift movement, he drew an arrow from the quiver and nocked it, drawing back and letting the sinew fly from his fingertips before the young woman could even blink. The projectile whizzed through the air and embedded itself in a tree with a _thunk,_ a hundred paces from where Anna stood observing with piqued interest.

"Your turn," Kristoff stated with a tip of his chin, holding the longbow out to her.

"What?" Anna squeaked, taken aback. "I've never held a bow in my life!"

A handsome grin lit up Kristoff's face and Anna felt her insides boil into a stew at the sight.

"That's why I'm going to teach you, _Ǫndōttr Brók._ "

Reluctantly, she reached out and took the bow from Kristoff's outstretched hand; it was lighter than she expected, and her small fingers wrapped easily around the grip, as though it had been precisely carved to fit her. He pulled an arrow for her next and she took that from him, too, swallowing with a gulp as she tried to figure out where to begin.

Apparently amused by her antics as she attempted to simultaneously hold the bow steady and nock the arrow, nearly dropping both, the burly man allowed Anna to struggle for a minute while he watched her before stepping forward with a laugh.

"Easy there, _Ǫndōttr Brók,_ " he chortled as he moved to stand behind her. His voice softened. "Here, let me show you."

A boot nudged the heels of her feet.

"Open your stance," he commanded gently. Anna did as she was told and he stuck his own leg between them, planting his foot to keep her legs apart and sending a bolt like lightning shooting straight to Anna's womb.

Her heart sped up at his close proximity as his arms came forward then, trapping her between them like a cage, and took her dainty hands in his large ones. If he was as affected by their closeness as Anna was, he didn't show it. Rather, he moved her hands for her with ease, putting her fingers in their proper places and helping to nock the arrow.

Perhaps he was simply more used to such closeness by now than Anna was; she awoke most mornings cocooned in his embrace, with Kristoff entwined around her petite frame like an protective octopus, his body heat radiating through the thin linen of her shift. He always rose before she did, removing his arms and legs from around her with great care, doing his best to not wake her.

What he didn't know is that she was always already awake.

He brought her arms up and tipped her elbow, turning her body until the side of her torso was perpendicular to the target.

"Draw," he instructed.

Anna pulled, but the bowstring was surprisingly taut; she tried again, but she wasn't strong enough to pull it on her own. Sensing her distress, Kristoff's fingers came back over her own and, together, they drew the sinew back until Anna's fingertips were level with her nose.

"Aim." The burly man's voice was hot and deep in her ear. "And… _release._ "

She released the bowstring at the same time that he retracted his fingers, allowing his arms to fall away from her. The projectile flew until it hit the targeted tree, sticking in the bark below Kristoff's own arrow with a _thwack_. It was a fitting spot, as Anna herself was much shorter than he was.

The Frankish princess let out the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding in an astonished huff and lowered the bow, impressed by her accurate shot– even with Kristoff's assistance.

"Wow," she mumbled in awe. To not only hold a weapon, but to be able to use it– it was exhilarating, and yet she had only experienced a small taste of its full potential. No wonder men enjoyed fighting and hunting at every chance they got.

"Not bad for your first time," Kristoff praised from behind her. Anna felt herself blush.

As the initial excitement began to fade, she was once again hyper aware of his chest against her back, so she turned to face him– and gasped at what she saw.

He was still standing incredibly close to her, merely an inch of space separating them. His captivating brown eyes were dark, and they bored into her own with an unprecedented depth, but they were glazed over with the same tragic sadness that Anna had only ever seen whenever they talked about his family. Her skin buzzed and tingled at their closeness, every limb alive with cosmic energy beneath his unwavering gaze.

"Kristoff…" Her voice trailed off, the question on her lips forgotten, when his hand came up to brush her loose, red-gold hair behind her ear. She shuddered at the intimacy of his touch and almost let the bow she held between them slip from her grasp.

"I'll protect you until my last breath, Anna," he breathed. It was a promise, one that she had heard before, but something about the way he said it this time was different– more finite, somehow. "But, should anything ever happen to me, I want to know that you'll be alright. That you'll be able to defend yourself after I'm gone."

The Frankish woman began to shake, disturbed by his sudden intensity. The direction of the conversation was putting her on edge.

"Kristoff, what are you talking about?"

"You're important to me, Anna," he stated, taking her flushed face in his hands, cupping either side of her jaw. "You're the most important person in my life."

The calloused flesh of his fingertips felt heavenly on her face and Anna's eyes inadvertently fluttered closed at the sensation. He was so close, so near, that she could smell his earthy scent, like water and leather and pine. It was intoxicating.

She desperately wanted him to kiss her.

Her heart pounded against her breast in anticipation, but no kiss came. When her blue eyes opened to meet his gaze again, he seemed to snap out of a daydream and his expression changed; regretfully, he dropped his hands from her face and stepped back, away from her, and she felt the mood between them fizzle out and return to normal– or, as normal as it could, now that Anna was aware of the extent of his feelings for her. She was at a loss for words, staring at him with her mouth agape in shock as her fingers came up to caress her jawline; she could still feel his phantom touch on her skin.

Luckily, Kristoff was able to recover much more quickly.

"Come on," he said softly, pulling another arrow from the quiver on his back. "Let's try it again."

–

 **A/N: If you follow me on tumblr then you know that this scene where Kristoff is teaching Anna to shoot a bow is the first scene that inspired this whole fic. :)**

 **Also: Should this story ever be removed from this site, I will re-upload and continue it on Ao3 once I make my way to the top of the waitlist (I am hopefully supposed to hear by this week or next week whether or not I'll be allowed to make an account). But I'll keep y'all updated on my tumblr!**


	15. Chapter 15

_On this night, and in this light_

 _I think I'm falling, I'm falling for you_

 _And maybe you'll change your mind_

 _The 1975, "Falling For You"_

–

The red-orange sun was low in the sky when Anna and Kristoff made it back to the homestead. Sven was waiting for them just outside the door to their longhouse, as he sometimes was ever since Anna had taken on some of the responsibility of raising baby Ingrid– who had been named for her mother after her burial– but something about the unusual graveness of his expression worried Anna.

" _Heill ok sæll,_ " Kristoff greeted as they approached. Without a word, Anna forced a smile and held out her arms for the baby, whom Sven handed over gratefully.

The man greeted them each in turn before he began conversing with Kristoff in Norse, his voice low and hushed. Kristoff's face fell as he listened, and Anna damned herself for not having dedicated more time and effort to learning the language so that she could understand.

When Kristoff turned to her, the subdued fear in his features was even more worrisome than Sven's expression.

"I'll be back before long," he promised, looking her meaningfully in the eye.

Normally, Anna would offer their guest food or drink, or insist that he sit and stay awhile, but she only nodded. She could tell that the circumstances of Sven's visit were not pleasant.

The Frankish princess allowed the pair to pass by her and carried the sleeping babe in her arms over the threshold, taking one last look at their disappearing backs before closing the door.

They didn't return until after nightfall.

Anna sat holding Ingrid before the fire, allowing the child to suckle from a cloth soaked in watered-down goat's milk that she had wrapped around her finger. Another woman in the village had been nursing her own child for a year, and so she frequently was the one to feed the motherless child, but when she wasn't available then Anna made do with the goat's milk and cloth.

As she cooed and rocked the cantankerous baby cradled in the crook of her elbow, she distracted herself from the feeling of foreboding in her gut by allowing her thoughts to travel to the idea of what it would be like to have children of her own someday. Perhaps with honey-brown eyes and a mop of golden hair like a lion's mane.

An image of a young Kristoff flashed across Anna's mind's eye, flanked by a man who could have been his father, but the vision was hazy, like remembering a fever dream.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Sven and Kristoff's entrance.

With a Norse expression of gratitude, the lean-muscled, brown-haired man tenderly took the babe from Anna when she rose from her seat; he then turned to leave, giving Kristoff a final nod before exiting the longhouse.

Anna twisted the damp cloth in front of her nervously as she stood facing Kristoff; a habit that she had always seen her sister partake in.

"What news?" she asked him warily, dreading his reply. It felt as though a dark cloud hung in the air between them, replacing the usual easiness, poisoning the air and making it difficult to breathe. "Is Sven to marry again?"

Kristoff refused to meet her eyes when he answered. "There's a raid. The boats leave a week from tomorrow."

 _A raid._

To plunder, to kill, to tear families apart and take women against their wills and irreparably destroy countless lives. Anna had almost forgotten that she was here, in Kristoff's home, as a result of a raid. A raid in which Kristoff himself had partaken, whose own actions had resulted in her becoming a prisoner of the North and being trapped at Svensholm.

It was a surreal concept to her now; that a man as good and noble as Kristoff could have ever been responsible for or had a part in such things.

Anna blanched. "You're not planning on going, are you?"

"I have to."

"No, you don't," Anna insisted, her revulsion creeping into her voice– although she didn't mean it to.

Then, more fearfully: "What if you get killed?"

" _Ósnjallr maðr hyggsk munu ey lifa (The foolish man thinks he will live forever), ef hann við víg varask (if he avoids battle),_ " Kristoff recited from his spot near the door, his eyes trained on his feet. " _En elli gefr hánum engi frið (But old age won't grant him a truce), þótt hánum geirar gefi (even if the spears do)._ "

Anna shook her head. "What does that mean?"

"All men must die." Kristoff met her gaze at last, his eyes weary, full of guilt. "It's unavoidable, whether I choose to fight or not."

"But what will happen to me if you don't come back?"

"You know how to use a bow now."

A beat passed, the deafening silence choking the room, like fingers wrapped around a throat.

"You knew," Anna murmured at last as the realization dawned on her. "You knew that there would be a raid and that you'd be leaving me. That's why you wanted to teach me to use a bow."

Kristoff was solemn. "I didn't want to leave you alone without a way to defend yourself."

"I can take care of myself just fine," she huffed defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

 _I got away from Hans on my own, after all._

A sad smile spread across the blond man's whiskered lips. "I know that you can, _Ǫndōttr Brók._ But if I don't come back–"

"That's not going to be a problem, because you're not going," Anna cut him off sharply. He chuckled at her brashness and the sound only served to further fuel her anger. She crossed the room, stomping over to where he stood to stare him down– or rather, up, as she was a full two or three heads smaller than him.

"Give me one good reason why you need to go," Anna demanded, jabbing a finger into his chest. Kristoff only shook his head.

"There's too many reasons to list."

"Too many to go, but only one to stay," Anna grumbled; she was referring to herself, and Kristoff picked up on her tone, his expression softening with guilt.

"It's not that simple," he sighed.

"What single possible reason could be more important to go kill or get yourself killed, leaving me all alone?"

"I've never killed a man," Kristoff defended, albeit shamefully. "I've fought and wounded many, but never dealt the finishing blow. I've always simply taken what I've needed and left. Many of the men respect me for that. Others– such as Hans– find me weak and challenge me at every turn."

"I don't care what Hans thinks. You're _not_ weak. You're– you're a _drengr,_ Kristoff," Anna said with passionate meaning, remembering the word that Bulda and Inga had taught her; the highest compliment that one could call another in Viking society. "You're the best man I've ever met. Bulda and Cliff are so proud of you, and I know that your parents would be, too, if they could see the fine man you've become."

"Anna," his started, his voice quavering. "You're not making this easy."

"Then, please, explain yourself, because it seems like an easy decision to me."

Kristoff inhaled a deep breath before he began. "If I don't go, then who knows what will happen to everyone here, in Svensholm. Spoils from raids are how we are able to buy the excess goods needed to survive the winter. We don't know how well the grain crop will fare when it's time to harvest, as we've had very little rain this year, and now we have not only one, but two little ones to feed."

That's why he always looked so tired, Anna realized; it wasn't just his own family's well being that he was responsible for, but the livelihood and survival of every family on the homestead rested on his shoulders. It caused Anna to both pity and revere him, and a stab of her own culpability arrowed through her; she was just another burden to him. Another liability for him to worry about and provide for.

"I'll help," Anna assured desperately, reaching for his hands to hold them in her own. "I'll do whatever it takes. We can get the wealth that we need somehow, without stealing it. Maybe we can do odd jobs around the countryside, or sell any excess clothing that we have, or I'll work extra hours at the loom, or– I don't know, but we'll think of something. Just– _please,_ Kristoff."

Her eyes misted and spilled over despite her attempts to blink back her tears, too overwhelmed with emotion to hold back any longer.

"I need you, Kristoff. I… I love you. Please don't go."

That was it. In one fell swoop, his defenses were down. A tear slipped from his eye and trailed down his cheek; his body seemed to slump with defeat, too moved by her convictions to fight her any longer. She looked into his eyes and saw his pain, deep and dark and damaging, and knew that his vulnerabilities were bared to her, and only for her. Anna knew in that moment, without a semblance of a doubt, that she had never known a more courageous or beautiful man. She never would again.

Slowly, he leaned forward and dipped his head down, stopping less than an inch from Anna's mouth, waiting for her consent. Without hesitating, she closed the gap, pressing her lips to his with barely-restrained eagerness.

He brought his hands up to hold either side of her face, steadying her head to allow him to deepen the kiss, and Anna sighed into it, all of the months of tension and longing releasing into the warmth of his mouth. Kissing her strong, blond Viking at last was more heavenly than anything that Anna could have ever dreamed of in her life; his lips were silky, but firm, and they moved against her own with a purpose, intoxicating her, until her primal thoughts were consumed with nothing but him. The hair of his upper lip and full beard of burnished gold tickled her already charged nerves, and Anna felt her skin heat up and the spot between her legs tighten at the sensation.

Kristoff pulled away first, but he didn't back away or remove his hands; instead, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Anna's, leaning into her as he panted with need. Anna herself was left dizzy, breathless from their kiss, and she brought her hands up to grip Kristoff's wrists for support, his fingers still tangled in the hairs behind her ears, his palms clammy against her cheeks.

"Marry me," he rasped against her lips. "In front of gods and men. Become my wife, Anna."

Caught off-guard by Kristoff's proposal, Anna allowed herself to be held as he wrapped her up into his arms; she nestled her ear against his heartbeat and melted into him as her emotions began pouring from her unchecked in sobs and sniffles.

" _Ek ann þér (I love you),_ " he murmured against the top of her head, planting a kiss there.

Anna effortlessly repeated the words back to him. She didn't need to ask him what the words meant; she already knew, in her heart.

She buried her face further into the woollen material covering his pecs, her thin arms reaching to twine around his torso as he began moving his lips down past her ear, along her jaw, to her neck.

"Tell me that you'll marry me, Anna." His voice rumbled against the side of her neck in a gentle plea, his breath warm, his arms tightening around her. "I need you by my side. Always."

"I will," Anna murmured into his shoulder; she'd have sworn to do anything that he asked of her. "By the gods, I will."

She was already his. Had always been and always would be.

–

 **A/N: Sorry, this Kristanna part kinda got away from me! It was originally one chapter than I split into two. To be fair, I'll try to do an almost equally as long Helsa chapter next.**


	16. Chapter 16

_I am not a little sparrow_

 _I am just the broken dream_

 _Of a cold, false-hearted lover_

 _And his evil cunning scheme_

 _Josienne Clarke and Ben Walker, "Little Sparrow"_

–

The sky above was dark and gray. A stark, howling wind blew in from the east, perfect for sailing.

 _How fitting,_ Elsa thought drolly. _That such miserable weather would be a welcome aid for such a horrible purpose._

She watched with a stony face as the men loaded and boarded the ships that would carry them across the sea to Francia, where they'd raid as many villages, take as many women, and kill as many men as their cold, cruel hearts desired.

Despite the lies that she told herself about her reluctant alliance with Hans, she found herself scanning the crowd on the beach from her breezy spot up the hill, looking for his head of bright, russet-colored locs to confirm the suspicions that she already knew to be true: that a man such as Hans would have jumped at the chance to plunder and kill. She was sure of it.

The Frankish princess hadn't been to see him since the night of Ulf's revelation of his desire to marry her and his knowledge of her secret meetings with Hans. Fearing for her own safety– as well as Hans's, if she were to be honest with herself– she'd given up on their arrangement. She stopped meeting him on the beach at sunset, and she did not seek him out otherwise.

He didn't seek her out, either.

Any hope she had placed in her plan to learn to fight had been washed away as easily as footprints in the sand. Ulf was larger, stronger, tougher. He was a man– and a brutal one, at that. A seasoned and savage warrior. Elsa was merely a weak and powerless woman from Francia, born to be a pawn in everyone's game but her own. Nothing more, nothing less.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder from behind, temporarily distracting her from her thoughts, but Elsa didn't flinch; she could tell that it belonged to her intended, the chieftain, without even looking.

" _Ver heill ok sæll, mín Dróttning (Be happy and healthy, my Queen),_ " he greeted in gruff Norse. "I will return to you by the end of the month, and then we will be wed when the leaves begin to fall from the trees."

"As I cannot stop the leaves from falling, then I shall pray that you do not return," Elsa replied back to him in Norse, smoothly, regally, unmoved by his words. Her tone was flat and emotionless, her expression solemn. The wind whipped and pulled at her dress like a flag, wisps of her white hair coming loose from her braid to fly about her unwavering face. If she were truly to become a queen, she thought, then she'd surely be a tragic one, like those of Greek lore.

Either way, she was doomed to an existence as dark as death if he came back alive to follow through on his promise to marry her.

She reconsidered her previous sentiment, and spoke again. "Or, if you must come back to Hordafylke, then I hope that you return on a pyre boat, dressed in a funeral shroud."

Ulf was silent. His hand fell from her shoulder, and, without another word, he moved forward and past her to make his way down to the beach, muttering a curse under his breath. Elsa wanted to feel elated at her small victory, wanted to be proud of herself for voicing the hateful thoughts that she normally kept trapped within herself, but she only felt hopeless.

No matter how many battles she won, the war still belonged to Ulf.

She turned to gaze at the sky one final time, before turning back to the longhouse to retire for the day; she had no desire to watch the ships set sail for her homeland without herself aboard them.

–

Elsa was awakened from her sleep by small hands gently shaking her arm. Her eyes snapped open to see Ulf's Frankish thrall girl staring down at her with frightful blue eyes.

"Frida?" she questioned, sitting up in the bed. For her to be here at such at a late hour was strange, as Elsa had already been served her evening meal hours earlier. "What is it? Are you alright?"

The young girl held a finger to her lips. "Get dressed quickly and follow me, my lady."

After changing out of her shift and into a gown of midnight blue with a matching cloak, to hide her silver hair and to help her to blend in with the night, Elsa followed Frida through the village, ducking behind buildings as they moved in silence, careful to stay hidden in the shadows. Although most of the men– and some warrior women, Elsa had been surprised to learn– had gone on the raid, the rest of the women, children, and thralls remained behind, making it just as dangerous for Elsa and Frida should they be spotted sneaking around; the Norsemen were fiercely loyal to their chieftain, after all, and held no love for the witch from the South. Any of them would seize the opportunity to get in Ulf's good graces with knowledge of his intended's comings and goings while he was away.

A fear began to creep up Elsa's spine when she realized that Frida was leading her to the woods behind the bathhouse, the location of her first secret meeting with Hans months previously; she knew before she even saw his gray tunic and fiery hair that it was no coincidence.

He turned when he heard them approach, straightening his back off of the tree that he had been leaning against and uncrossing his arms. He thanked and dismissed Frida in Franconian before she scurried away under the cover of darkness, leaving Elsa alone with the Viking man.

As soon as the girl was out of sight, Hans turned to address Elsa, his green eyes glinting in the moonlight; it had only been a week since she had seen them last, yet she had already forgotten how clear they were.

"Have you been well?" he asked her in Norse.

The Frankish princess was taken aback by the question; concern for others was not Hans's usual _modus operandi_.

 _Conceal, but feel._

"I've been surviving," Elsa replied coolly in her native tongue, a slight shake to her voice that she couldn't control.

 _Feel, but conceal._

Even in the darkness, she could see the brow that Hans lifted at her statement. "I thought you were through with simply surviving, Princess."

Unwilling to either confirm or deny his remark, Elsa decided to steer the conversation away from herself and her weakness. She had experienced enough self-loathing for one day already.

"I'm surprised to see you, Hans," she snarked; it came out a bit more cruelly than she intended, still on edge from the shock of seeing him again. "I'd have thought you'd be halfway to Francia by now."

"I've some things to attend to here in Hordafylke." His eyes flickered to her face briefly before he shrugged with nonchalance. "I've never much liked getting blood on my hands, anyway."

Elsa _ha'd_. "I thought you very much enjoyed pillaging and killing, as all _Pagan savages_ do."

Her attempt at a joke was not lost on Hans and he smirked. "I've never killed a man who didn't try to kill me first."

Only a month or so prior, such talk would cause Elsa to squirm and feel ill, but now she could speak about killing as easily as any of the men who gathered in the mead hall each night to regale one another with tales of violence. She herself often fantasized nowadays about sticking a dagger in Ulf's neck.

"I'm afraid that I cannot say the same," Elsa murmured scornfully as her focus trailed down to the dirt around her slippers; she expected to see a patch of ice fanning out from beneath her soles, as there usually was when she was anxious, but there was none. She held herself and rubbed her arms beneath her cape, a habit of hers, although she didn't feel the slightest bit cold in Hans's presence.

The air between them was still, and moments passed before Hans spoke again.

"But you _are_ well?"

Elsa dared to meet his gaze again and felt her heart palpitate at what she saw; he truly was concerned. After not seeing her for a week, perhaps he had assumed that the worst had befallen her at Ulf's hands. Perhaps he had even been worried about her.

"Yes, I'm well. As well as I can be."

Hans nodded and seemed to relax slightly, although his expression was grave. "I'm assuming that Ulf told you."

Elsa swallowed thickly. "He wishes to marry me upon his return."

She allowed her gaze to travel to a spot in the darkness above Hans's head, where the trees whispered and hissed in the light breeze. She parted her lips to say something more, about Ulf's knowing comment about his brother, and his secret meetings with Elsa, but decided against it, snapping her mouth shut instead.

"Is that all that he told you?"

"Yes." Elsa hesitated, biting her lip, bringing her eyes back down to his. "What else is there?"

Hans took in an audible breath. "He went to see the shaman, who prophesied that the next chieftain... will come from your womb."

The young woman's eyes widened in fear. She had never before considered the possibility of Ulf putting his child in her, and the idea made her visibly pitch with repulsion. Having the chieftain's filthy hands on her and his rotten breath in her ear whenever he had attempted to lay with her had been bad enough, but a wedding night that would result in her being forced to carry his babe inside of her for many long, excruciating months, before painfully giving birth to it and raising it to become a heartless killer like his father– Elsa couldn't dream up anything more terrible for even her worst enemies.

But of course that was why Ulf wanted to marry her. She felt foolish for not realizing it sooner.

"I'd rather die than allow that to happen," she hissed, clenching the material of her cloak in her fists; she was struck by the memory of Anna's uncannily similar vow months earlier. Perhaps Elsa was more like her younger sister than she had ever thought.

Or perhaps it was Hans who brought out the fighting spirit within her– that which had been dormant for all of her twenty years– drawing it from her inch by inch, like the legendary king pulling the blade of his sword from the stone.

"He's quite excited about it, you know," Hans continued, his usual snide manner of speaking softening for his companion's sake. "Won't stop bragging about it to our brothers. Apparently the old man told him that your child– born from royal _vǫlur (witches)_ blood and the bloodline of Dagr the Dane– will be a powerful chieftain, unlike any leader the world has ever seen, and that his birth will unite the North and the South."

Elsa knew all too well of Hans's brothers, once the redheaded Viking had explained his family to her; his father, Dagr, the most formidable Viking to have fought and conquered in the past century, had thirteen sons, of which only seven still lived. Ulf was the eldest, and so had taken over after his father's death. Hans was the youngest, and so was the least respected and was often passed over in matters of politics or inheritance. The other five followed Ulf around and practically worshipped the ground that he walked on, vying for their chance at being named his heir should he fail to have children before his death– which, it seemed, was an issue that he planned on soon remedying.

But how could it be predicted that such a powerful child would come from her womb? Even with her mysterious powers over the elements of ice and snow– which she had yet to learn to control– Elsa herself was weak and timid. As the heir to the throne of Francia, her father had often voiced his disappointment in her disposition; she was regal, educated, and kind, but lacked any sort of the confidence or dominance that was expected of a ruler. She rarely asserted herself, and, when confronted with unfamiliar or uncomfortable situations, she closed up like a clam, hiding herself away from the world.

As she was doing now.

"I- I should be getting back," Elsa stammered, taking a step in the direction of the chieftain's house. "If Ulf finds out that I've been to see you–"

"He won't." Hans moved closer to her. "As you said, he's halfway to Francia by now. How could he possibly know?"

 _But he does know,_ Elsa thought ruefully, remembering Ulf's warning.

The pale-haired woman shook her head.

"Why are you here in Hordafylke, Hans?" she asked quietly, pulling her cloak tighter around herself, as if by doing so she could silence the fearful thoughts that plagued her mind. "Why didn't you go on the raid with the other men?"

Hans stepped forward, daring to bring a hand up to touch Elsa's face, pressing his palm to her cheek; despite the storm that raged inside of her and the uncertainty that scalded the tips of her fingers with ice, she didn't flinch at his touch. His hand was surprisingly soft, and warm, and she inadvertently tilted her face into it. Her pulse simultaneously quickened and calmed, and the multitude of voices in her head stopped their panicked symphony, if only for the moment.

For Elsa, it was enough. She revered the peace that Hans's touch brought her.

"I'm through with doing dishonorable things in the name of honor," Hans murmured with sincerity, giving her face a gentle nudge with the heel of his hand to indicate that she should look at him; she did, watching with fascination as his irises changed color in the light of the moon.

"I want to do what's right and good," he continued. "And I want… I want you to teach me, Elsa."

Elsa swallowed hard, too mesmerized by his gaze to speak, her words coming out as silent as a breath. "Only… only if you'll continue teaching me, as well."

Hans nodded and the ghost of a genuine smile crossed his lips for perhaps the first time in his life, causing Elsa's heart to skip a beat at the sight. The pad of his thumb brushed over her cheekbone and in that moment Elsa could see the gates of Heaven in his eyes.

"I will," he swore.


	17. Chapter 17

_I want to fly into this beautiful life_

 _I think it'd be nice with you_

 _Cider Sky, "Northern Lights"_

–

Gothi, the priest, advised the young couple to wait until Frigg's Day to perform the ceremony, to properly honor the goddess of marriage and invoke her favor.

When the day came at last, Anna was a ball of excited nerves, bouncing from place to place as Bulda guided her through the motions. She had hardly noticed the iciness of the pool when she had bathed, and the older woman had to command her more than once to be still while she brushed and braided her hair in a half-up, ceremonial style, weaving wildflowers throughout.

"He's been stricken with _inn mátki munr (the mighty passion),_ " Bulda sighed dreamily as her fingers worked expertly over Anna's red-gold locks. "The type of love that men immortalize in songs for all of time. I never believed that I'd live to see the day."

The Frankish girl blushed at the statement. Bulda had been over the moon when Anna and Kristoff had confessed their engagement to her, swooning over the fact that her adopted son had found love at last; her celebration was short-lived, however, once she'd realized that the young lovers would have to be wed in secret, for everyone's safety– including their own.

Normally, Bulda explained, Anna would be taken to the bathhouse in the village to be purified before the ceremony, but due to her fugitive status they'd have to make do with what they had at Svensholm. Most of the usual rituals would have to be adjusted for her situation, such as the animal sacrifice and days-long feasting, but Bulda waved off her concern with a flick of her wrist and insisted that the gods wouldn't mind, considering the circumstances.

Anna could care less about the nuances of the wedding; as long as she was Kristoff's, and he was hers, nothing else mattered, although a small part of her still wished that Elsa could be there.

She was dressed in a new gown the color of evergreen, like emeralds dug from deep within the earth, that Bulda had made especially for her. It was the first possession that belonged to Anna and Anna alone since arriving to the North. It was not nearly as fine or elaborate as ceremonial dresses in the South, as Norse weddings emphasized presenting the bride just as she was, but Anna adored it nevertheless.

Once her hair was finished and she had been dressed, Bulda stood and crossed the longhouse to rummage through a rather heavy-looking chest.

"This was mine, as a girl," Bulda started in her accented Franconian as she walked back over to where Anna sat, carefully peeling away the layers of cloth in her hands to reveal a gorgeous silver circlet set with rock crystals. Although the gems were not as perfectly polished as royal Frankish jewels, the circlet was the most beautiful adornment that Anna could ever remember seeing in her life; it easily must have been the most valuable heirloom on the homestead.

"After the ceremony, you will keep it," the blonde-haired woman continued. "For the day you have a daughter of your own. My gift to you."

Tenderly, Bulda set the bridal crown upon Anna's head and stepped away, giving the teary-eyed princess a once over before beaming at her.

" _Fagr (Beautiful),_ " she cooed. "You're ready."

–

It was still summer in the North, although the air had already started to turn, nipping at Anna's exposed decolletage.

It had been days since she had seen Kristoff last, as he had been off with Sven completing the groom's marriage rites prior to the ceremony; she had missed him terribly, especially at night, and even Kristoff had been reluctant to leave her alone with only his mother around for protection, but Anna found that the desire within her to see him again– to be in his arms again, as his wife– far outweighed the ache of his temporary absence.

As she walked out of the forest on her way to meet her husband-to-be at the altar, carrying the Bjorgman family sword in her tiny, white-knuckled fists and escorted by Bulda, it struck her that he was supposed to be a thousand miles away raiding at the moment, but instead he was there, waiting in front of the _horgr (a sacred altar made from piled stones)_ to marry her. It caused her heart to swell with unbridled, unparalleled joy, a joy that she had never experienced in all of her eighteen years.

She herself was also supposed to be in another land, leading a very different life far away from Svensholm, but she was here. Her parents were gone and she would more than likely never see her sister or her homeland again, but she would have never known this love– would have never known Kristoff– if she hadn't suffered such tragedy.

Life was a fickle mystery that Anna didn't dare to ruminate on any further– especially on her wedding day.

Bulda gave Anna a motherly kiss on the forehead before she moved to the side to stand with Sven and Cliff, the only other witnesses to the ceremony besides herself. Anna took her own place beside the heap of stones and dared to peer up at Kristoff from behind her lashes, meeting his warm eyes with her own and knowing in that instant– without a semblance of a doubt– that they were meant to be together, and always had been. Their fates were destined to be intertwined.

"You're beautiful," Kristoff whispered, causing Anna to blush and avert her eyes– but only for a moment. If only he knew how beautiful he was to her.

The Frankish princess half-listened as Gothi chanted and chirped his way through their ceremony, picking up on the bits and pieces that she understood, such as asking the gods for their blessings, but she was too enchanted by Kristoff's handsome, assured smile to focus on much else.

When Gothi made as if to skip the part concerning the exchange of monies with the bride's parents, Kristoff held up a open palm.

"Wait."

He jogged a few paces away from the _horgr_ and knelt before a pre-dug hole in the ground, about a foot wide by a foot deep, and pulled a leather pouch from his breeches that jingled from the movement. It was eight ounces of silver– the amount that he would have paid her father for her dowry, if her father had been present.

His bride watched in amazement as Kristoff dropped the pouch into the hole, before covering it with the loosened earth, compacting the small burial mound carefully with his hands before rising and making his way back over to Anna, giving her a nod.

Even when it wasn't required of him, Kristoff was still an honorable man. A single tear slipped down Anna's cheek. From somewhere behind her, Bulda let out a choked sound like a sob.

The time came for Anna to present her new husband with his adoptive family's heirloom sword, and she repeated the vows as Gothi instructed them to her, swearing to to bear his children and love him until the end of their mortal days together. In turn, Kristoff vowed to protect Anna and any children they may have with the sword that he now held, from this moment until his final moment.

They had decided to forgo the traditional exchange of rings, both for safety and financial reasons, but Anna couldn't care any less about a silly piece of jewelry. She was Kristoff's wife now, for all of time, whether she had a glittering gold band on her finger or not.

Rather, they joined hands and pressed their foreheads together, basking in the spiritual essence of one another as they spoke simultaneously:

" _Mun þú mik (Remember me),  
man ek þik (I remember you);  
Unn þú mér (Love me),  
ann ek þér (I love you)."_

–

Everything in the dimly lit room was still, save for the fire that danced at the center. Anna was aware of nothing but her husband's lips on hers and his palms sliding up her back, leaving a fiery trail even through the material of her dress.

Needing to feel more of his touch, Anna reached forward to take Kristoff's hands in her own, bringing them up to place them on either of her shoulders. Understanding what it was that she wanted, Kristoff slipped his fingers beneath her neckline and pushed the fabric away, allowing it to fall down her arms, parting to reveal her breasts to him. He gazed upon the pale, freckled skin appreciatively, sliding his large, calloused hands down to palm the orbs in turn, gently squeezing one and then the other. The sensation of his fingers brushing over her exposed nipples, peaked in the air of the room, was divine, causing Anna to shudder with newfound pleasure.

Anna hadn't realized that she had sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and was torturing it in anticipation until Kristoff brought up a thumb to tug it free. She peered up at him from beneath her thick lashes, as though she were daring him to kiss her.

A guttural, primal sound escaped from Kristoff at the sight of his new wife so full of lust and love for him, as Anna felt her own aroused whine start in the back of her throat.

Without sparing another moment, he smashed his lips to hers, hungrily, pouring all of his love and devotion into the kiss. Anna felt the emotions flood into her and her knees went weak from the power of it all, falling backwards onto the bed– their marriage bed– with Kristoff following, positioning himself above her and nestling himself in between her legs.

She felt the tip of her husband's hardened cock tease against her womanhood– which had already begun to weep with desire– straining for entry. A bolt of fear shot through Anna's heated body as she realized what was about to happen; even though she trusted and loved Kristoff with all that she had, she would be lying if she said that she wasn't nervous about consummating their union. But when she gazed up into Kristoff's eyes and saw him staring back, watching her with such an intense longing as he panted from the effort of holding himself back for her sake, Anna's heart swelled.

Wrapping her thin arms around his neck, she pulled him down for another kiss, slower this time, letting him know that she was ready.

When her Viking husband took her at last, easing his manhood into her, Anna was surprised to find that it hurt very little, and he was so tender and careful in entering her that Anna had to bite back the urge to cry more than once. Once he was fully seated inside of her as far as he could go, Kristoff stilled, breathing heavily in the space between Anna's neck and shoulder as he allowed her a reprieve to become accustomed to the feeling. She could see the way he trembled, his arms shaking beneath his own weight as he held himself up on his elbows on the bed. She needed more, needed him to move, but she didn't know how to voice what she wanted; instead, she shifted her hips upward in an attempt to create the friction she craved, trying to take him deeper, and causing Kristoff to gasp. Anna froze at the sound.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, afraid that she had done something wrong.

Kristoff brought his head back up to face her. "Don't be sorry."

Experimentally, he pulled back his hips and thrust forward into Anna, causing each of them to moan in unison at the sensation. He tried the move again, and again, until the two lovers found a rhythm that had them both writhing and grasping at each other's sweat-slicked bodies as their passion built to unfathomable heights. Anna reached the brink first, throwing her head back and crying out as she felt her body being impossibly pulled in every direction; Kristoff followed soon after, whispering sweet words in Norse against his quaking wife's ear as he spilled his seed into her with a few final pumps, pressing his lips against the pulse beneath her jaw to keep from groaning too loudly.

After a few minutes, they each came down from their respective highs and shared one more languid kiss, before falling asleep in a tangle of contented limbs atop the furs, lulled by the sound of the crackling fire and both of their hearts beating together as one.

With Kristoff, Anna was home.


	18. Chapter 18

_Disarm you with a smile_

 _And leave you like they left me here_

 _To wither in denial_

 _Civil Wars, "Disarm"_

–

Hans cursed in Norse before dropping his sword, the blade thumping forgotten to the earth, as he ran over to his wounded opponent. Crouching down, he gingerly took her forearm in both hands and turned it towards him to inspect the damage; stark, scarlet blood gushed forth from the fresh gash in her wrist from where he had accidentally struck her, reflecting the golden light of the setting sun and rapidly soaking the edges of her torn dress sleeve.

Elsa almost immediately felt faint at the sight of so much red; if she hadn't already been sitting, she surely would have lost her balance and fallen over.

Thinking quickly, Hans brought the bottom of his woollen tunic up to his face and bit into the material, making a small tear in the fringe with his teeth. Using the tear for leverage, Hans pulled with both hands and ripped the material along the hem until he was holding a thick strip of fabric. In a manner not dissimilar to their first encounter, he began to bandage her wound, pushing her blood-dampened sleeve up to her elbow and wrapping the ribbon around her arm until he could knot it to halt the bleeding.

"Does this mean that we're even now?" Elsa joked quietly in Franconian, watching the top of his head with half-lidded eyes as he worked; he smelled like spices and wet earth and honey and it made Elsa dizzy.

Or perhaps her dizziness was on account of the amount of blood she had lost.

When he was finished, Hans smiled up at her; a handsome, worrisome smile. "Not even close."

A beat passed as they regarded each other, the pain in Elsa's arm completely forgotten for the moment, before Hans rose to his feet.

"Well, I'd say that we're done for the day. Can you stand?"

Elsa took his proffered hand and used it to raise herself up, albeit shakily; she stumbled and Hans caught her, hooking his arms beneath her shoulders to hold her steady. The Frankish princess tried to resist, tried to stand on her own without his aid, but he held onto her fast.

"Let me help you," he commanded gently. His voice was soothing, and Elsa closed her eyes and sighed, allowing herself to sink into his supportive embrace. She knew that she'd never make it back to Ulf's longhouse on her own legs in her current state. Briefly, the idea crossed her mind that Hans could take her back to the longhouse and stay with her for an evening meal to keep her company, as Ulf and the others were still gone on the raid, but she forced the thought away. There was no need to take any more risks than she already was; for her sake, as well as his.

Either way, it was nice to _have_ someone, even if that someone was Hans.

Although she found herself wishing that she could stay in his arms a little while longer, Elsa silently nodded her acquiescence against his warm chest– which she could feel rise and fall in time with his breathing like the waves of the sea behind them– and he arranged their bodies hip-to-hip, slinging his arm around Elsa's torso to help her walk back up the beach and towards the village.

–

Elsa awoke to bright afternoon sunlight streaming in through the roof and Ulf standing over her bed, glaring down at her. She had been asleep almost as soon as Hans had left her at the door the previous evening, and she figured that she must have slept heavier than usual after her injury, causing her to not hear her intended when he returned home. But as she came to, she realized that he wasn't looking at her face, and followed his gaze to see that he was focused on the bloody wrap around her forearm. Her skin turned cold.

Before Elsa could yank her arm away to hide her indiscretion, Ulf grabbed it, roughly, and pulled the wound up closer to his height to investigate it further. Upon recognizing the telltale gray wool of Hans's tunic, his face wrinkled and he snarled, gripping Elsa's wrist so tightly that it caused her to hiss in pain and she feared that he would snap the very bone cleanly in half.

"I warned you," he growled in Norse. His voice was low, barely controlled, and filled with a primal reverberation that shook Elsa to her core.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She had no words. Not that she could defend herself now, anyway; her guilt was surely plastered as clear as day across her pale face, as readable as runes.

"I warned you," he repeated. "And you took my kindness for granted."

She waited for the punishment to come, for Ulf to strike her with his fist or break her arm in his rage or toss her out of bed to beat her– but no punishment came. Instead, his anger seemed to melt from his expression, bit by bit, and he released her arm, allowing it to drop to the mattress. He stepped away from the bed, and when Elsa sat up she could see the fresh blood that had begun to seep slowly through the remaining clean parts of her bandage.

"To save your sister wasn't enough," Ulf admonished in his deep timbre, speaking to Elsa but facing away from her, focused on something else. "I should have expected as much from a _witch_."

The young woman felt a pang of guilt at remembering his previous threats against Anna, which she had foolishly believed that she could avoid, but she said nothing. He seemed to be considering something, painfully dragging out the pause in the conversation– as one-sided as it was– before turning to face Elsa once more.

"It has been decided that Hans will be brought before the council of his elder brothers."

"For what?" Elsa asked instinctively, defensively, her voice parched from sleep. "He's done nothing wrong. He hasn't touched me, if that's what you're concerned abou–"

"He must pay for his _ergi_ at last," Ulf declared, cutting the princess off. "His unmanliness cannot and will not be tolerated any longer."

Elsa bit back a gasp so harshly that she drew blood; the tang of iron coated her tongue as Hans's words echoed through her head.

 _In Viking culture,_ ergi– _unmanliness– is seen as a particularly shameful trait to have._

"Why?" Elsa whispered. "Why now? Why not before?"

 _In fact, it can sometimes be seen as an offense serious enough to be punished by exile or death._

"His absence from the recent raid is inexcusable," Ulf justified. His undamaged eye glinted in the semi-darkness of the room. "The final straw in a long series of offenses against his family and his name. He will be tried, and he will be put to death."

 _Luckily for me, 'unmanliness' is something that I am apparently blessed to have in abundance._

Elsa didn't buy into the chieftain's explanation, but she didn't need to; Ulf knew that she knew the game that he was playing at. Hans had stepped out of line, taking liberties with his brother's woman– the chieftain's woman– and now he would be publicly punished under the guise of a genuine charge. Ulf held power over Elsa and Hans, and he was going to exercise it, to remind them both– as cruelly as he could– that he was the one in charge. Their fates did not belong to them; their decisions were not theirs to make.

The white-haired woman's fingers itched, either to create ice or to reach for the dagger that rested against her breast. Her thoughts travelled to her half-hatched plans to kill Ulf and escape, but his gravelly voice cut through, as though he knew her intentions.

"And, should I somehow meet my untimely end before the trial, my brothers will follow through on my promise to execute Hans for his crimes, while I shall watch from _Valhöll (Valhalla)_."

If Elsa was powerless against Ulf, then Hans was even more so. Every move he had ever made in his life, every dishonorable act he had committed, had been an attempt at self-preservation. But his attempts were fruitless; no matter what chances he had ever believed that he had of surviving, it had always been an illusion. For a man so clever, Elsa was surprised that Hans had never realized it before; or perhaps he had, and had simply been playing his cards as they were dealt to the best of his ability.

Ulf was the master and Hans was the puppet. Hans truly was a pawn in his own life, just as Elsa was in hers, and the realization cut through her gut like a blade, cutting out her hope like a still-beating heart. Hans had never had a chance, and neither did Elsa.

But she could still save him.

The Frankish princess had one last arrow in her quiver, a chance to sacrifice herself to protect Hans from the evil machinations of his eldest brother once and for all. A new resolve filled Elsa's soul, warming her flesh and calming her nerves; she felt at peace with her purpose. She could see Hans's smirking face and green eyes clearly in her mind's eye and it gave her strength. She would save his life once more.

As long as Hans lived, she could survive.

She couldn't kill Ulf to save Hans, but she could do the next best thing. Staring up into the chieftain's steely eyes, Elsa steadied her breathing and crossed her hands over her lap in a gesture of obedience.

"What would you have me do... my lord?"

A grotesque grin broke out across Ulf's mangled face at her question.

Elsa already knew what she had to do. The only way to guarantee Hans's safety– as well as the safety of her sister– would be to willingly marry Ulf and become the wife of the chieftain.

–

Elsa met Hans that evening on the beach at sunset.

As usual, he was already waiting for her, and smirked upon seeing her coming down the beach. He held out her sword to her when Elsa approached him at last, as he usually did, but this time she didn't take it from him.

Hans blinked in confusion, lowering the sword an inch. "Are you alright?"

His gaze then shot down to her bandaged wrist, before meeting her eyes once again.

"Is it your arm?"

"No," Elsa answered coolly, keeping her voice smooth despite the flutter she felt in her stomach at hearing the concern in his voice. She held her arm with the opposite hand, covering her wound from his sight, as if to prove that she was fine.

"I… I…"

She swallowed heavily and steeled her will.

"I no longer wish to train with you, Hans."

If her words affected him, then he didn't show it. Rather, he raised her sword for her once again, holding it out in her direction.

"Here, take it," he insisted. Elsa shook her head, her loose curls jostling with the motion.

"No, Hans."

"Why not?"

"There's… there's no point."

"Don't get discouraged," Hans cooed reassuringly, taking a step forward, moving closer to her. "You've been making great strides in your swordsmanship. I can tell that you've improved–"

"That's not the reason," Elsa bit out, her voice low.

Moisture welled in her eyes and she blinked them rapidly, turning to face the horizon and praying that Hans didn't notice her barely concealed state of distress, simmering just below the surface.

"What is the reason, then, Princess?"

Elsa felt her heart skip a beat at his pet name for her, the playful familiarity of which she hadn't realized that she would miss until this moment. He was watching her, without animosity or judgement or sadness evident on his features… just watching her. Observing her.

Perhaps he was feeling– just as Elsa was– but concealing.

Somehow, to the Frankish princess, that made the entire situation even more unbearable than it already was.

"Because I've decided to marry Ulf," she confessed. "There's no use in fighting it anymore. It's inevitable."

"You don't really believe that, do you?" Hans scoffed. "You're lying."

Elsa pursed her lips. "It's not a lie."

Anger flashed across Hans's face, Elsa's only warning before he threw her sword to her and lunged forward, his own sword held high above his head, ready to strike. The young woman caught her sword by the hilt just in time to block Hans's blow, restabilizing herself on her feet before Hans struck again. They dueled like that for some time, with Elsa doing her best to defend herself against Hans while the Viking came at her repeatedly with everything that he had. Her sore muscles screamed for relief as she met him blow for blow, over and over, feeling her resolve crumble with each hit and hoping Hans would give up before she broke down and confessed the truth, as it was apparent that he was unwilling to accept the truth that she had given him.

"Enough, Hans!" Elsa shouted when at last she was able to get a word in, their blades locked together in a stalemate. "Stop this!"

Reluctantly, Hans shoved off of her with his sword, causing Elsa to stumble backwards, desperate for a chance to catch her breath. Keeping pace with Hans had been trying, especially with her wound, which had reopened for the second time that day; warm blood trickled in rivulets to her elbow.

"Why?" Hans demanded, panting. "Just tell me why."

"I can't ever forgive you, for what you tried to do to my sister," Elsa lied, forcing herself to be brave. But of course she could forgive him; she already had.

She would have forgiven him for anything.

Taking in a shaky breath, Elsa continued speaking, averting her gaze to avoid seeing the hurt in his features.

"This is my chance to keep the peace with Ulf. So that I can survive. Besides, maybe it won't be so bad being married to a chieftain." She tried with everything she had to be convincing. "And… I'm sure we'll all be much happier this way. The way things were meant to be. You'll see."

When she looked back at Hans, she could see it there in his eyes; the hatred that she had first seen when she had bandaged his wounds in the tunnel in Aachen was back. Hatred for who she was, hatred for what she was doing to him… hatred for the fact that she was sacrificing herself to save his worthless, meaningless life. Again.

A life that had only just begun to have meaning, with her in it.

"Elsa–" He took a step towards her, and she felt a chill run up her spine. He was closing in on her.

"Hans, don't–"

At her plea, he paused briefly in his tracks. "Did he threaten you? Or hurt you? I'll kill him, Elsa, I swear I will– I'll do whatever it takes."

Fresh fear rippled through Elsa's veins and her heart nearly stopped. He was willing to _kill_ his own brother for her. He would either get himself killed trying, or succeed and die at the hands of his remaining brothers. Either way, he couldn't win, and that frightened Elsa more than anything. The palms of her hands were as cold as ice, but they felt as though they were on fire.

 _We need to survive, the both of us, and I won't be able to go on knowing that you've gotten yourself killed._

He continued advancing on her, until he was close enough to touch.

"No, please, just… stay... _away!_ "

On the final word, she brought both hands out in front of her defensively; before she could stop it, a burst of energy shot forth from her palms. Reflexively, Hans brought both arms up and crossed them in front of himself, but the blow was too strong; her icy blast struck Hans with enough force to sending him flying backwards, landing roughly on his back on the ground a dozen paces from the Frankish princess.

Elsa watched in horror, stunned by her own power, as Hans writhed in pain on the sand, groaning, gripping his side as he coughed and struggled to get up.

"Elsa… don't… don't do this."

 _Please._

Elsa clutched her hands to her breast fearfully, her voice hardly audible over the whisper of the tide. "I'm sorry… Hans... I'm…"

 _Forget about me, Hans._

Her words failed her, her throat squeezing shut like a fist. Without another word, Elsa turned and fled from the beach, just as frozen tears began to fall from her eyes like crystals.

 _Let me go._


	19. Chapter 19

_I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back_

 _The less I give the more I get back_

 _Oh, your hands can heal_

 _Your hands can bruise_

 _I don't have a choice, but I'd still choose you_

 _The Civil Wars, "Poison & Wine"_

–

The soft whistle of a pan flute drifted over the air, contrasting starkly against the guttural conversations that filled the mead hall. It was a charming sound, Elsa thought, like the hopeful song of a little bird as it flies through dark and towering trees towards the freedom of the mountains.

 _Like a little sparrow._

The Frankish princess allowed her lifeless eyes to travel over the celebration; from her vantage point at the head of the room, sitting beside her soon-to-be husband, she could see every face of every person in attendance– none of whom she recognized or cared to know.

A meal of roasted meats and root vegetables had already been served, of which Elsa didn't touch a single morsel, and now the mead was flowing freely, taking the festive atmosphere to soaring new heights, while Elsa's spirit only sank lower and lower.

She felt like a prize put gaudily on display. She had been dressed in a thick gown of scarlet red, trimmed with fur and gold thread, and adorned with jewelry, her least favorite of which was a gilded circlet that had been placed atop her head; it was to be removed upon her marriage to Ulf the following morning in a ritual symbolizing her transition from maidenhood to wifedom.

The very thought of having to partake in such a rite made the young bride feel ill.

"Late as usual, Brother," Ulf grumbled suddenly from beside her, but Elsa could tell by his tone that he could not care any less about whether the addressed son of Dagr would be in attendance or not. Vaguely, she wondered which brother had come to pay his respects to the betrothed couple this time; Lars had already given his blessings, as had Franz, Jurgen, and the twins.

The sound of a familiar throat clearing caught Elsa's attention. She snapped out of her daze and turned her head to see Hans standing on the step before them, his hands empty and eyes hollow, and her stomach lurched.

"Not surprised to see that you did not bring a gift," the chieftain continued, his words slurred by the mead he had been imbibing all night. "You dishonor yourself."

"I am afraid that I did not know what to get for the man who already has everything, my lord," Hans quipped in Norse, his eyes flickering briefly to Elsa. "But perhaps I shall pray on it and the gods will give me an answer."

Ulf growled and brought his fist down angrily on the arm of his chair. "Now is not the time to be clever, boy. Perhaps we shall sacrifice _you_ instead of the goat on the morrow."

Elsa heard a quiet voice speaking before she realized that it was her own.

"Please, my lord," she started, eager to keep the peace. "He was just making a joke. I am sure that he meant no harm by his words. Let us not allow him to ruin our wedding feast."

Ulf regarded the princess for a moment before turning to address Hans once more.

"Go," he barked. "Before I change my mind."

Hans smirked; that smug, disdainful, ungrateful, unaffected smirk that Elsa had almost never seen him without. It made her blood boil, but she maintained her cool and collected demeanor.

 _Feel, but conceal._ Hans had taught her that. He'd taught her well.

"May Frigg bring you many blessings, my lord. My lady."

He shot Elsa an indecipherable look, his intense green eyes burning into her icy blues, before spinning on his heel and leaving the pair behind, his russet locs brushing the tops of his shoulders as he crossed the hall and exited through the double doors.

Elsa wasn't sure what she had expected, but seeing Hans so unperturbed, so callous, in the face of her impending marriage to his brother rubbed her the wrong way; she didn't expect him to show any weakness in the form of emotion, but at the very least he could try to be happy for her, despite the fact that she had left him rather coldly the last time they had met. She was doing all of this for him, after all– not that he was aware of that fact.

The urge to confront him overcame her senses until she could think of nothing but doing so.

Elsa waited until Ulf was distracted by conversation to slide out of her seat, slinking in the shadows along the wall until she reached the doors at the front of the hall, slipping out undetected. She knew without a doubt that no one would miss her at her own wedding feast– not even her intended.

The autumn air was brisk, and it nipped at her nose and the tips of her fingers, the wind chilling her to the bone as she walked through the settlement, even through the thick woollen barrier of her gown. She knew where she was going, but she wasn't sure if she would find him there.

As Elsa rounded the corner of a familiar longhouse, the building that served as the bathhouse came into view, illuminated by the light of the moon. And there, at the edge of the wood behind the structure, stood the recognizable silhouette of a man, waiting for her.

He turned at the sound of her approaching steps, his green eyes twinkling dimly in the silver light.

"You came."

Elsa stopped a few paces short of reaching him.

"How did you know that I would?"

Hans moved to face her, shuffling into a silver pool of moonlight that shone down from a break between the trees.

"I didn't."

Her feet seemed to move of their own devices, carrying her closer to Hans, stopping when she was close enough to reach out and place a hand against his chest, over the beating pulse of his heart. He felt so wonderfully warm and alive beneath her fingertips.

She had to remind herself that she was marrying Ulf to save his life. She didn't dare imagine a world where his heart didn't beat within it.

"Can't you be happy for me, Hans?" Elsa begged, her voice shaking. "Please. I need you to be."

She didn't expect him to answer, but then his voice lowered to a whisper: "I can't."

"Why not?" Elsa asked mindlessly, focusing on a spot below the neckline of his tunic, but she already knew the answer. Perhaps she had known for some time now. The thought of hearing him say it out loud terrified her, but she dared not stop him.

Hans inhaled a shaky breath before speaking; Elsa could feel his heart speed up beneath her palm, still resting delicately against his covered chest.

"Because then everyone will see the true extent of my unmanliness… when I lose the woman I _love_ – the only woman I've _ever_ loved– to my brother."

Her head snapped up and Hans's honest green gaze met her own, allowing her to see the love he held there, glistening like tears.

Elsa didn't try to speak. For perhaps the first time in her life, she dropped her inhibitions and gave in to her instincts; grabbing Hans's bearded face in both shaky hands, she steered herself forward until her lips crashed against his in an unsteady, uncoordinated kiss. Hans didn't resist or push her away, but rather indulged in return, deepening the kiss as he pulled Elsa closer, flush against his body. He needed her closer, needed more of her against him; Elsa herself could feel it in the way his fingers trembled beneath the hair at the nape of her neck as they snaked their way through her silver curls.

He was as desperate for this as she was.

It was Elsa who pulled away first in a staggering moment of clarity, breathless, her tongue flicking over the wetness of her lips, tasting him on her. Hans watched her face as she recovered from their heated kiss, looking almost as unsure as Elsa felt. Without another word, Hans pulled the Frankish princess in for another kiss– slower this time, but just as needy– and Elsa reciprocated.

Time itself seemed to stop, the world ceasing to exist around them. They continued for some time, tongues dancing and bodies entwining as a desire began to ebb and flow inside of the Frankish princess like the waves of the sea, heating her body from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

When Elsa began to grasp and claw at Hans's clothes, her body reacting of its own accord, Hans reached down to take Elsa by the hand, leading her up the steps and into the bathhouse, barring the door behind them.

The air inside the dark room was still thick and humid, residual from the day's baths. The tub stood empty in the center, and Elsa was surprised to find that the wood was still warm when she leaned her hands against it behind her, bracing herself as Hans resumed kissing her fiercely.

With her unspoken permission, Hans helped her out of her dress and she in turn aided him in the removal of his own garments, sucking in a breath upon seeing a man's nude form for the first time as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room.

He was more beautiful than she could have ever imagined, with lean, sinewy muscles and a taut stomach covered in a smattering of fine red hairs, the path of which led to that part of a man that she had yet to see. His hard length jutted out from the bottom of his torso, towards her, and she knew that he was as excited by the sight of her body as she was by the sight of him. She only wished that she had a candle or torch with which to inspect him closer, to commit his form to memory.

He stole forward and ran his hands along her shoulders, down her arms, coming to rest on either of her bent elbows as she dared to place her own palms against his bare chest.

"Do you want this?" Hans was asking for permission, murmuring in her ear, his voice hoarse with desire– desire for _her_. It caused her to tremble, but not from fear. "Do you want _me?_ "

Elsa didn't hesitate in her reply: "More than I've ever wanted anything or anyone in my life."

Delicately, Hans reached up removed the gilded circlet from Elsa's crown, tossing it to the floor without a second thought. It _clinked_ twice before disappearing out of sight.

His hands were on her chest in the blink of an eye, burning her skin wherever his fingers alighted, as his lips crushed to her own in a passionate kiss that left Elsa breathless but wanting more, the way a drowning man craves air.

Hans pulled Elsa down into the tub with him, aligning their bodies so that she was laying along the top of him, every curve and swell of her body matching his own perfectly. He kissed her, long and slow, pushing his tongue into her mouth. The inside of his mouth tasted sweet and musky, like mead, and it made Elsa dizzy, intoxicated with the scent and taste and warmth of him; she felt the heat from his mouth trickle all the way down to the spot between her legs, which throbbed painfully with the need for friction.

Sitting up, Elsa straddled the redheaded Viking about his waist; his hands came up to grip her hips and hold her steady.

"Please, Hans," Elsa panted, grinding down against his manhood, feeling a jolt of pleasure shoot up through her womb as she did so.

With one hand, Hans reached for his hardened cock between them, lining it up with Elsa's damp sex. Without hesitation, she sank down on him, swallowing his manhood inside of her body with a hiss; Hans tossed his head back, groaning her name like a prayer as Elsa felt his fingernails dig deeper into her flesh, hard enough to leave marks. It spurred her on.

Despite the burn she felt at having her maidenhood torn, she raised herself up on her knees to lift and drop her hips, bucking against him wildly as she repeatedly rode his length up and down in a flurry, drunk on the sensations engulfing her consciousness. Hans thrusted upward, meeting her movements with his own, and Elsa cried out from the sheer pleasure of it all; their moans filled the bathhouse, mingling with the unmistakable smell of sweat, and Elsa couldn't tell where her voice ended and Hans's began as she felt the unbearable pressure building within her reach a breaking point.

She squeezed her eyes shut and choked out his name. "Hans–"

Elsa couldn't finish her thought as colors exploded behind her eyes, the muscles of her abdomen convulsing and contracting as her tightness clamped around Hans's member, causing him to curse and push up inside of her, finishing with a few hard, final thrusts until Elsa collapsed atop him, both of them spent.

–

Elsa wasn't sure how long she slept.

She awoke with a start to find herself staring at the wooden ceiling of the bathhouse, confused for only a moment before the memories of her encounter and subsequent lovemaking with Hans came flooding back to her. She was still in the empty tub with him, tucked against his side; a chill rippled through her body, so she inadvertently snuggled closer into him for warmth. When he stirred slightly, she realized that he was awake as well.

"How long have I been asleep?" she mumbled, nestling her head beneath his chin.

"Only about a half-hour."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You seemed peaceful enough." Hans's voice was soft. "I wanted to allow you to rest awhile."

Elsa hummed under her breath and allowed her eyes to slip closed, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest and his heart beating against her ear; being with Hans felt like a dream. A dream that she'd have to wake up from very soon.

"It's funny to think that, in just a few hours, I'll return to this very tub to be purified before my wedding," Elsa mumbled, opening her eyes once more.

"Something tells me that you'll need a bit more purifying than usual after this," Hans cooed with a growl, adjusting Elsa's position against him to land a playful bite on her neck with his teeth, startling her fully awake. Despite her annoyance at his comment, Elsa shrieked in delight at the sensation of his teeth scraping over her pulse point, causing a fresh wave of desire to ripple through her body.

"Consider this my wedding gift to the blushing bride."

"Hans, stop," Elsa chided with a giggle. "You know, Ulf is going to be even more cross with you than he already is if you don't bring a proper gift tomorrow."

Hans pulled away suddenly and sat up, holding her at an arm's length away from himself.

"You weren't joking." His voice dripped with the realization of his disappointment. "You still mean to marry him?"

"Yes," Elsa said softly, feeling the familiar shame begin to creep into her psyche. She realized how cold the room had gotten, and how exposed she was. "I have to."

When Hans spoke again his words were sharp, and Elsa felt each one in her heart as he spat them at her: "Then why did you come to me?"

The Frankish princess stared up at him with wide blue eyes, struggling to find the words.

"Because I…"

"Because you took pity on me?"

Elsa gasped quietly. "No, of course not."

"Why, then?"

"Because," she choked out, the tears she hadn't even been aware had been forming spilling over and onto her cheeks. "Because... _I love you._ "

Hans was pensive for a moment at hearing her confession. He seemed to relax and his expression softened before he spoke again.

"Then why marry Ulf?"

Elsa inhaled shakily and shook her head. "I can't explain."

"He's forcing you to do this, I know he is. Even if you won't tell me," Hans insisted, pulling her against him once more and holding her tightly; Elsa never wanted him to let her go. "And that's why, tomorrow, I'm going to challenge my brother to a holmgang."

After living with the Northerners for months, Elsa knew now what a holmgang was: the rite in which any person of any status could challenge another to a duel. The winner could lay claim to the loser's possessions, spouse, and even position in society; on the flip side, the loser would forfeit his life.

"You can't!" Elsa shouted reflexively, pulling away from him once again, both of her hands flat on his chest for support as she stared him down. Then, her voice quavering: "Not when I've been trying so hard to save you."

"Save me?" Hans blinked and sat up straighter to face her on an equal level. "So, that _is_ what this is about."

The pent-up emotions began spilling out of Elsa like water; she could no longer hold back the truth. She explained everything, from Ulf's threats against Anna's life to his promise that the other five sons of Dagr would follow through on the chieftain's plans to have Hans executed if he should fail to do so.

"That's why I agreed to become his wife," Elsa sobbed at last, burying her face into the hairs on his chest, her arms wrapping around his torso and clasping against his back. "Even if I _did_ somehow manage to kill Ulf, it wouldn't be enough to save you. And if you face him in a holmgang, then he'll– you'll be _killed_."

Hans shushed her with a gentle hiss.

"It's my choice," he murmured against the top of her hair. "And it's the right one. Perhaps the first right choice I've ever made in my life."

Elsa swallowed thickly. "But–"

"This is my chance to make good on my promise to free you, Elsa. Once and for all."

Hans's voice was stern, but beneath the adamance, Elsa could discern his love for her underlying his words. It caused a fresh tear to slip down the white-haired woman's already tear-streaked face.

"If you challenge him, he _will_ kill you," Elsa whispered. "And even if you do best him, his brothers– _your_ brothers– will avenge him. You can't win. My marriage to Ulf is the only way."

Hans shook his head.

"I was born with a mark on my back. There's absolutely nothing you can or could have done about it, no matter what Ulf has made you believe," he assured her, cupping her face in both of his hands and tilting her head up to look at him. "You've already saved me more times than I can count. You've taught me to value a life other than my own, Elsa. You needn't sacrifice yourself any more for my sake."

He brushed away the new tear with the pad of his thumb and gazed into her eyes. "My life is worth _nothing_ if you aren't free."

The russet-haired Viking leaned down and pressed his lips to hers a final time; Elsa poured her heart and soul into the kiss, weighed down by the knowledge that it was the last true love's kiss that she'd ever know.

–

 **A/N: Guest, you totally guessed it with your last review, haha!**

 **I think we only have a few more chapters to go. Thank you all for sticking with this story!**


	20. Chapter 20

_The killer in me is the killer in you_

 _My love_

 _I send this smile over to you_

 _Civil Wars, "Disarm"_

–

Anna lovingly shushed the cooing baby in her arms as she rocked the infant back and forth.

"You're a natural," Bulda complimented from her seat beside the Frankish princess inside of the longhouse, where she was keeping herself busy with pulling apart old linens that could be reclaimed for other purposes. Whenever she pulled a strip that was too tattered or stained to be reused, she tossed it into the fire.

"A natural?" Anna turned to face her mother-in-law as Ingrid's eyes finally slipped closed with tiredness.

"At being a mother," Bulda clarified. She tipped her chin towards the sleeping child in Anna's arms. "You'll be great at it once your time comes."

"I'll never be as strong as Inga was," the younger woman stated sadly, her voice wavering with the memory of her dear friend. Baby Ingrid's own hair had started to grow in– the same color of wheat that her mother's had been.

After a moment of mournful silence passed between the two women, Anna inhaled a breath and spoke once more.

"Perhaps my time will come sooner rather than later."

The older woman's hands froze their work. Her mouth hung open at her daughter-in-law in disbelief, her brown eyes wide.

"You mean that…" Bulda's voice trailed off, not daring to believe that what she was thinking could possibly be true.

Anna pressed her lips together to keep from grinning too broadly. "I've missed my courses."

"How long?"

She bit her lower lip. "I haven't bled in over two moons already."

"Such a blessing from the gods!" A joyous expression cracked across Bulda's weathered face, illuminating her features. "Have you told Kristoff?"

Anna shook her head; she couldn't keep from smiling herself. "No, but I will. Soon."

As though summoned by their conversation, a breeze of crisp, morning air wafted into the room, and Bulda and Anna both looked up in unison to see Kristoff enter the longhouse.

"Drat, I'll need another basket," Bulda cursed, excusing herself as she rose and moved towards the door, dusting the front of her frock with her hands. As she passed Kristoff, she reached up to pinch teasingly at his cheek.

"If I do not see you before you go, _do_ be careful, my son."

She shot a knowing smirk at Anna before disappearing out of the door.

Anna took a moment to appreciate her handsome husband; he was dressed in his finer clothes, which were the color of charcoal and edged with scarlet and fur, as he would be attending the Viking chieftain's wedding with Sven that day.

The bride was to be none other than Anna's own sister.

"Leaving soon?" she inquired as she stood, making her way to the makeshift bed in which Ingrid usually slept and sat upon it, carefully laying the sleeping infant down amongst the blankets.

"Waiting on Sven, and then we'll be going."

Anna nodded her understanding, but she couldn't keep the sadness out of her expression when she met her husband's kindly gaze.

Knowing what she needed, Kristoff moved forward and crouched in front of his wife, reaching out to cusp her cheek in the palm of his hand. Although they had been intimate every night since they were wed, Anna still found that she was excited by even the smallest of touches from her husband; he never ceased to amaze her, and she thanked the gods everyday for bringing her to such a good man.

"I wish that I could go with you," Anna bemoaned, leaning her face further into her husband's comforting touch. "Just to see her, to know that she's alright."

"It's not safe," Kristoff said softly. "But I promise that I'll give you all of the details as soon as I return home tonight."

Anna nodded, averting her gaze to the floor; she still needed to tell him the good news.

"Kristoff," she started, wanting to tell him so badly that she was carrying his babe inside of her, that he was going to be a father and that they were already starting their own family, but she shook her head, losing her confidence.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Just… can you tell my sister that I love her dearly, please? It's the next best thing to being able to tell her myself."

Kristoff nodded, pressing his lips to his wife's forehead in a loving kiss. "I will."

–

Elsa awoke feeling more sore than she had ever been before in her life, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.

After being shaken awake by a handful of thrall girls– Frida among them– she was told to rise and dress, before being shuffled out of the longhouse and out into the early morning. The dark sky was gray with pre-dawn and the air was cold with the turning of the season; Elsa welcomed the chill– she welcomed _anything_ to distract her from thoughts of Hans that threatened to sink her like a stone if she dwelled on them too heartedly.

Not unlike her first experience when she had first arrived to the Viking settlement, she was taken to the bathhouse where she was steamed and bathed; unlike the first time, however, the bath water was steeped with herbs and oils, the earthy fragrance of which Elsa didn't find wholly unpleasant. If she inhaled deeply enough, she swore that she could still smell Hans's presence in the room. When she began to weep in the tub– where just hours earlier she had experienced a bliss that she would have never believed possible, and that she'd never experience again– the girls attending her said nothing.

After she had been purified, Elsa was taken back to Ulf's longhouse, where her attendants dressed her in a fine gown of ivory linen and brushed out her silver hair, weaving flowers throughout the wavy locks.

At last, the gilded circlet was placed atop her head, and she was handed Ulf's family sword, which she was instructed to present to her new husband during the ceremony. It was heavy, with an intricately designed handle and made of a finer steel than any weapon Elsa had ever seen before; she assumed that it must have belonged to the legendary Dagr.

She was escorted out of the longhouse and across the village, towards the edge of the forest. The group entered the thick of trees and marched forward along a roughly worn footpath– two girls in front of Elsa, and two behind, most likely to keep the Frankish princess from fleeing.

A passing thought– that Anna should be here beside her– crept into Elsa's mind, but she forced it away, lest she start crying again.

The sound of a drum reached Elsa's ears before they reached the clearing; upon breaking through the trees and into the open space, she saw that she was surrounded on all sides by guests who had come to witness the ceremony; she recognized some as being from Ulf's settlement, while others had come from neighboring villages, eager to see the formidable chieftain marry the witch that was rumored to be his bride. As though their suspicions were confirmed, a few onlookers whispered to one another upon seeing Elsa arrive, and she felt the shame burn inside of herself like a torch.

Ahead of her, Ulf stood before an altar of stones, looking as chiefly as ever in a tunic of burgundy and gold, the fringes trimmed with brocade; across his wide shoulders he wore a fur-lined cape, sewn from the pelts of many slain wolves to accommodate his large stature.

He was her soon-to-be, lawfully-wedded husband– and the last person on her mind in that moment.

Elsa dared to scan the crowd that had gathered in the clearing as she walked, her eyes darting across the myriad of curious faces that watched her in her search for Hans; her heart skipped a beat and she felt her body heat up when her focus landed on a head of russet locs and a pair of clear green eyes.

Hans was watching her, his face emotionless, as she made her way to the altar. He had purple marks beneath each of his eyes, as though he had not slept; truthfully, after their indiscretion in the bathhouse, Elsa had not slept very well either. She noticed the sheathed sword strapped to the belt about his waist and felt her throat tighten at the realization that he meant to follow through on his promise from the previous night.

He truly intended to challenge his brother to a fight to the death.

Unable to say a word, Elsa tried to plead with him with her eyes to stand down as she took her place beside the altar, but he only diverted his attention to the ceremony itself as the priest began speaking.

Elsa knew enough Norse to understand what the priest was saying; most of it was asking the gods for their blessings and good fortune, but Elsa was too distracted by the foreboding that enveloped her, stealing covert looks at Hans whenever she had the chance, dreading the moment that he would step forward to challenge his brother to _holmgang_. She knew that he'd never survive if he went up against his older brother in a duel, and the thought pained her more than the idea of becoming Ulf's wife did.

When the moment came at last for Elsa to give the sword in her white-knuckled grip over to Ulf and swear her fidelity to him, she dared a final glance in Hans's direction– just in time to see his hand move to his waist, reaching for the hilt of his sword, the pommel of it glistening like a beacon.

Elsa knew that she had to act fast.

 _Any person of any status can challenge another to a duel._

She looked down at the sword in her hands as Hans as he took a step forward, out of the line of the crowd and towards the altar, and knew what she had to do.

"Wait!" she cried out, her voice ringing clear and true. The priest paused his incantation and Elsa felt the scorching stares of a hundred or more people all focused on her, intrigued by her outburst.

She steeled her will and continued.

"Ulf, Son of Dagr, Chieftain of the Danes, I– I challenge you to for the right to lay claim to your possessions and your title. I challenge you to... to a _holmgang_."

A hush fell over the clearing. Behind him, one of Ulf's brothers began to chuckle, and then another, until the humor of the Frankish princess's statement rippled through the stunned crowd, filling the air with laughter. Hans stood, frozen to his spot with his sword partially unsheathed, the blood quickly draining from his face.

"What joke is this?" Ulf growled, his eyes narrowed to slits at his bride, obviously not amused by her antics.

Elsa sucked in a breath and raised the sword she held, entering the fighting stance that Hans had taught her. She looked directly into Ulf's eyes.

"Tis not a joke, my lord."

All at once, the laughing around them stopped. Ulf appeared angry enough to burst.

"Do you deny my challenge?" Elsa threatened. "Doing so would put you at risk for _ergi_."

It was true; any man who shied from a lawful challenge was considered unmanly enough to be exiled on the spot, automatically losing the proposed duel by forfeit.

Her provocation was enough to push Ulf over the edge. Roaring with an unprecedented rage, he reached out just in time to catch the weapon that his brother threw to him, spinning it once in his hold before bringing it down upon Elsa's own blade with enough force to send her staggering backwards.

Normally, a Viking duel would be accompanied by the whoops and _halloos_ of the spectators, eager to see the combatants fight; instead, the crowd had fallen deathly silent, the air of the clearing empty save for the repetitive _clang_ of metal-on-metal as their swords clashed.

Elsa swung her sword forward, towards Ulf's torso, but he blocked it with ease, pushing her back. She recovered instantly and came at him again, lunging forward and managing to lock her blade with his, before both fighters leapt away from one another to avoid a stalemate. The chieftain wasted no time in advancing on his rebellious bride once more, snarling like an animal as he brought his sword down again, and again, and again; he was strong– much stronger than Hans– and it took all of Elsa's own strength to guard against his blows, especially with a sword that was heftier than what she was used to.

He was breaking her down as he struck, over and over, straightforward and diagonally, like a warrior going berserk in a trance-like fury; Elsa felt her grip on her weapon loosening, weakened by his continuous barrage of forceful, unforgiving strikes.

With a final swing, Ulf knocked the sword clear out of Elsa's hands and struck the Frankish princess across the face with the pommel of his sword. A spray of blood shot forth from her lips and stars exploded behind her eyes from the unexpected hit. She fell to the ground with a cry, landing painfully on her back as the wind was forced out of her lungs, leaving her choking and gasping for air.

Hans rushed forward with a shout. Even in her daze, Elsa managed to hold up a hand.

"Hans, don't," she rasped, but she was too late. The other sons of Dagr had already restrained him, pulling him away from the chieftain as he towered over his fallen bride.

"Stop this foolishness," Ulf growled, pressing the point of his blade to the soft flesh below her jaw; Elsa felt the skin break, and a warm trickle of blood slipped around her neck and down into her dirt-matted hair.

She knew that Ulf wouldn't kill her; he would attempt to marry and bed her at any cost, against her will or otherwise, because the shaman had told him that she would give birth to the next chieftain, and by killing her he'd be interfering in the very plans of the gods themselves.

If he wouldn't interfere with the gods' plans, then Elsa would have to do so herself.

With difficulty, she reached up and into the breast of her gown, pulling out her dagger before anyone could stop her. She pressed the edge of it against her own throat.

"Hans lives," she demanded, her mouth filling with blood. "Hans lives… or I die."

For perhaps the first time since meeting him, Elsa saw a genuine fear flash across Ulf's gray-green eyes. He retreated his sword by an inch; he could tell that she wasn't bluffing.

When Ulf didn't acquiesce, but only scowled at her, Elsa pushed the small blade harder, feeling its icy sharpness against her pulse.

"Swear to me that no harm will come to him," she choked out, feeling the urge to sob as hopelessness overcame her at his hesitance. " _Swear it!_ "

Prophecy or not, it seemed that Ulf's pride would not allow Elsa to have the upper hand; he was finished playing at her games.

With a furious bellow, the eldest son of Dagr hoisted his sword above his head, ready to bring down the fatal blow upon Elsa's neck. Instinctively, Elsa dropped the dagger and shot her hand forth to defend herself, and it was then that she felt it; the fire in her hands, itching to create ice– and Hans's face, burning inside of her mind's eye, encouraging her to use her power– to _feel_ it.

She could feel it.

 _Feel, but conceal._

She focused on the energy that hummed within herself, concentrating it at the center of her palm, allowing the pressure to build for only an instant before she released a controlled blast straight in Ulf's direction.

 _As long as Hans lives, I can survive._

It struck him directly in the heart.

Ulf groaned and teetered backwards, dropping his weapon to clutch at his chest. Elsa propped herself up on her elbows and scrambled backwards, reaching for her fallen sword, ready to defend herself if he retaliated. From where his fingers covered the spot where he had been hit, the Frankish princess could see the ice that snaked outward, enveloping the fabric of his tunic in tiny crystals, encasing his massive hand in crystallized ice.

He was being frozen from the inside out.

"Witch," Ulf gasped in Norse, the last thing he managed to utter before he collapsed to his knees, falling forward to land on his face with a sickening _thud_.

Some onlookers gasped while others only watched in astonished silence. The atmosphere felt more akin to a funeral than a wedding– which made sense, Elsa surmised, considering the circumstances.

Ulf– the eldest son of Dagr and leader of the Danes, who had won many battles against the best warriors in both the northern and southern lands– had lost his life at the hand of his Frankish captive: the eldest daughter of Agnarr of the Franks, who had never seen a single day in battle before today.

Panting, Elsa stuck the point of Ulf's family sword in the ground– which she supposed belonged to her now– and used it for leverage to bring herself to her feet. Bravely, she turned to face the crowd; they were waiting for her to speak.

Swallowing with difficulty, Elsa wiped her bloody mouth with the back of her sleeve and forced herself to find her voice.

"The chieftain is dead. I've killed him," she announced. "By the laws of this land, I am now free. I belong to no man."

There were murmurs of disbelief and awe from the crowd. A visibly frightened woman near the front fell to her knees, mumbling a frantic prayer to herself.

Turning to the remaining sons of Dagr, Elsa motioned for them to release Hans, who was being held back by his arms. Reluctantly, they did so, and Hans lurched forward, his expression full of reverence for the woman he loved; Elsa felt her own heart swell at the sight of him, knowing at last that he would finally be safe from Ulf's terrible machinations from this moment until his last.

Smiling assuringly, she held out an open hand towards her lover, and Hans took it, squeezing gently in affirmation; unabashed, she raised their clasped hands high, for all to see.

She had freed herself from the Northerners who had imprisoned her, but only after Hans had freed her from herself.

Just as she had saved his life, he had saved hers. And for that, she was eternally grateful.


	21. Chapter 21

Sjå meg djupt (Look deep into)

I augene blå (My eyes of blue)

Du må forstå (You must understand)

Wardruna, "Odal"

–

It was not yet dusk when the door to the longhouse creaked open, interrupting Anna's work at the cooking fire where she was preparing an evening meal. She looked up to see her blond Viking enter; his expression was one of bewilderment.

"Kristoff," she gasped, rising quickly to greet her husband. "You've returned early. What is the matter?"

With a heavy heart, Kristoff took his wife into his arms, holding her close. Anna sighed and melted into him, allowing herself to be held.

"I've seen your sister."

Anna pulled away from him, enough to look up into his eyes. "How is she?"

Kristoff hesitated to answer. "She is… well."

"She has married the chieftain, has she not?" Anna furrowed her brow in puzzlement. "Or has some other tragic event come to pass?"

"One cannot marry the chieftain when one has… dispatched the chieftain."

His cryptic words only served to deepen Anna's confusion further. Sensing her distress, Kristoff took his wife by the hand and led her over to the fire, indicating that she should sit and listen to what he was about to tell her.

He began with the ceremony, recalling the actions that had led to Elsa duelling Ulf in a holmgang, and ended with Elsa's victory over the son of Dagr, standing beside Hans with their clasped hands held high for all to see.

When at last he had finished speaking, Anna let out the breath she had been holding in an astonished huff of air, her hands holding her face.

"Elsa… she…"

Somehow, she had always known that her sister was a fighter, as strong and formidable as any warrior. But what– or who– had finally been the catalyst, to push the eldest daughter of Agnarr to realize her true self? Had it been Hans, the Viking brute who had tried to take Anna herself by force all those months ago? She could only surmise.

An unexpected knock at the door came suddenly, and Anna and Kristoff glanced at each other, both wondering who could be coming to call at such a late hour. Rising warily, Kristoff walked to the front of the longhouse with great strides, gripping the hilt of his sword at his hip before removing the bar from the door and pulling it open.

There, standing just outside the threshold, was Elsa, donned in a dark cloak.

Anna leapt to her feet; the tears sprang to her eyes before she could put a name to them.

"Elsa!" she cried, crossing the distance between them. Elsa met her in the center of the room, returning her embrace with equal fervor when she threw her arms around her and hugged tightly.

"Oh, Anna," Elsa murmured into her sister's wild red hair. "How I've missed you."

Anna pulled back and wiped at her eyes with her fingers; seeing Elsa alive and well after so much time apart was too much of a relief to be put into words.

"Kristoff's just told me everything. Well, nearly everything, as I'm sure that there is much more that you can tell me. Do you have time to stay and speak?"

Elsa nodded. "Yes, I have all of the time in the world, now that Ulf is dead. I've bested him in battle, and so I am free. Which means that we can finally go home. Back to Francia."

Despite herself, Anna felt her stomach drop like a stone at hearing her sister's words, her newfound joy at their reunion quickly and succinctly replaced by a foreboding sense of dread. Returning to Francia had once been a dream, but now...

"Elsa… if we return home… will we even have a home to return to?"

The elder sister took her younger sister's hands in her own. "We don't belong here, Anna. Francia is our home."

Anna gulped. "I…"

She glanced to Kristoff, who watched her with sullen eyes, his expression solemn and his arms crossed over his chest. She knew without a doubt: Kristoff was her home. She belonged in the North, at Svensholm, with him.

Shaking her head, Anna gently pulled her hands out of her sister's grasp. "This is my home now."

"Anna–"

"I know these Northern lands haven't been kind to you. At times, they were not kind to me, either," Anna explained as she made her way over to stand next to her husband. "But they brought me to a man more kind and noble than any I've ever met. He made me his wife, and we've created a home here, for ourselves and for…"

Her hand absentmindedly trailed to her stomach, her palm resting over the babe that slept within her womb. She tilted her face up to smile at Kristoff. "The gods have blessed me with a child. His child."

Kristoff's eyes lit up at her revelation.

"For these reasons and more, I cannot leave. I will not leave. I must stay here."

Anna reached down to grab Kristoff's hand in her own, and he took the gesture eagerly, squeezing her hand to indicate his excitement at her news; she revelled in the way that her husband's eyes glistened in the light of the fire.

Elsa tented her own fingers together in front of herself. "Anna, I cannot stay. I've killed the chieftain. I'm not safe, and neither are you. But, if you insist on remaining here… then I must sail South without you."

Anna's features softened. "Elsa…"

Kristoff cleared his throat before speaking. "You did best Ulf in a proper holmgang. Therefore, should you choose to stay, you would be the clan's new chieftain."

"The clan's new chieftain, with a mark on my back." Elsa turned to address her sister's husband. "I have no doubt that Ulf's brothers won't spare an opportunity to spear me through the neck as soon as they get the chance."

"If I may be so bold," Kristoff continued. "I saw their faces today when you froze Ulf's heart. They're afraid of you… of your power. In time, they may come to respect you for it. But, for now, I don't believe that they would try to take your life. Ulf may have been a fearless warrior, but his brothers are cowards, who've gotten by until now only by hiding in their brother's shadow."

Elsa laughed quietly. "That's exactly what Hans said."

"Hans?" Anna gasped in disbelief. "So, then, it is true; you've aligned yourself with that brute."

"I know what he did to you, Anna. As well as what he tried to do," Elsa said. "But without him, I never would have survived. It's thanks to him and his teachings that I'm alive and free now. He taught me to be strong, showed me how to be a warrior. I never believed in myself until he believed in me."

"What about all of the times that I believed in you, Elsa? Did that mean nothing?" Fresh tears pricked at Anna's lashes. Hearing her sister's praise of her attacker was a betrayal she had never expected; it hurt deeper than any wound of the flesh.

The door creaked behind them before Elsa could respond, and all three turned to see a figure enter, his red-gold locs swaying from his steps.

Faster than Anna could comprehend, Kristoff's sword was drawn and she was pushed behind him as he leapt forward, assuming a battle stance.

"Hans," he growled. "How dare you come where you are not wanted."

"I did not come to fight, Kristoff," Hans started, reaching for the handle of his own sword. "I was only escorting the lady."

Anna and Kristoff both turned to look at Elsa; she nodded, confirming that Hans spoke the truth.

The taller Viking shook his head. "Whether or not you came looking for a fight does not matter; you've found one, as I am bound to protect my wife's honor and slay you here and now for your past aggressions against her."

"Surely, that isn't necessary–" Elsa tried to protest, but was hushed by Hans raising his hand in a gesture of peace.

Deliberately, Hans pulled his own sword from its sheath at his waist and held it forward in front of himself, point towards the floor, to prove his passivity.

"My family sword," he explained. "It's yours. I have no use for a blade in these matters."

Having said his piece, Hans dropped to a knee and bowed his head, his sword still outstretched.

Anna glanced at her sister, and was shocked by what she saw; she recognized the expression on Elsa's features all too well. It was an expression borne of love, underlined by fear at the prospect of losing Hans. It was the same way that she herself looked at Kristoff.

Anna was tired of violence. She craved peace, to undo the damage that had been inflicted on countless lives. Only through forgiveness could they begin to heal.

Tentatively, she stepped forward, moving to stand in front of Hans where he knelt. Kristoff held out an arm to stop her, but she lowered it gently, giving her husband a reassuring look. Her blue eyes were dark as she paused, gazing upon Hans, silently contemplating; he no longer frightened her, now that Kristoff was there to protect her and their unborn child, but she still felt a rage within her for the heinous acts he had committed at the expense of herself and her countrymen.

Even she had been wrong about Kristoff once. Perhaps there was some good in Hans as well, which Elsa could see but she could not. Given the chance to redeem himself, perhaps he could even be a man as noble and righteous as her husband; she would have to offer him that chance.

After an extended silence, Anna spoke, reaching out a hand and allowing her palm to hover above Hans's lowered head.

"Although I cannot say that I forgive you for what you did to me, you've done more for my sister than I can ever repay you for, and for that… I am grateful."

To her left, Elsa let out a relieved breath of air. Anna laid her hand upon Hans's scalp in a gesture of forgiveness, before removing it and stepping back to stand beside Kristoff.

Elsa moved forward to hug her sister. "Thank you."

"Please stay, Elsa," Anna begged when she had pulled out of her sister's embrace. "We can make our home here, for all of us. I can't bear the thought of being separated again."

The pale-haired princess glanced at Hans.

"The decision is yours to make, Princess," he said, righting himself as he sheathed his sword.

Elsa swallowed thickly, twisting her hands together in front of herself; she knew there was only one path to choose, which, before today, she wouldn't have had the strength to endure. Especially not alone. But, as she looked to Anna and then to Hans, she knew that she'd never have to endure any trial alone again.

She was ready to make her choice.

–

A/N: One more chapter!


	22. Chapter 22

_Eg gjev deg din odel (I give you your heritage)_

 _Om du vil ha (If you want it)_

 _Den fer ikkje fra (It will not leave)_

 _Wardruna, "Odal"_

–

"News has arrived from Francia, at last."

A howling wind raged outside the longhouse, battering the walls; Winter had arrived in the Northern lands, settling in like a cantankerous babe, although Elsa didn't mind. She preferred the cold and unsettled climate.

The chieftain stood in front of the large wooden table that had once belonged to Ulf, the son of Dagr, shuffling lit candles and parchments around to better view the hand-drawn map of the Rhineland that had been spread out on the table's surface. She was dressed in a heavy, regal shift of deep royal blue trimmed with white fur, forgoing a cloak in lieu of the raging fire at the center of the room that did well enough to warm the air; her pale hair was braided in a rope that draped over her chest as she bent over to work, a simple bronze circlet perched atop her crown.

Her husband stood off to the side, watching his wife work with arms crossed and a bemused half-smile marring his expression. "What news?"

"The kingdom has been split," Elsa answered, straightening up and gesturing with her hand for Hans to move closer so as to see better. When he sidled up beside her, she couldn't deny the tingle that ran through her when his arm touched hers.

"Here, the noble families have divided the country so," she continued, drawing imaginary lines on the map with her fingertips to demonstrate. "They've appointed a new king in Aachen, but the letter I've received from Gerda claims that not all are content with the choice. There is much unrest, particularly in the western lands."

"It seems we'll need a new map, then, if we're to raid once the ice thaws." Hans murmured, his bored tone betraying his disinterest as he consulted his own documents to the side of the table before abandoning them.

"Who says that we'll be continuing such a barbaric practice?" Elsa countered.

"We need resources." Hans shrugged his shoulders. "Raiding is how we acquire those resources. Raiding is as essential to Viking culture as _blóts_ (sacrifice rituals for worship) or _holmgangs_. Instilling Christian virtues in the pagan Norsemen may not be an easy task. Not only that, but there are many warring clans in the North; if we don't raid, they will."

Elsa set her lips in a flat line. "A change for good must start with one clan. We should start searching for more legitimate ways to achieve our ends sooner rather than later."

"You could always claim your birthright and take the kingdom back," Hans offered as he stepped to stand behind Elsa.

"That's not what I meant." Elsa shook her head. "Maybe someday we can return to Aachen, but first the North and her forces must become self-sustaining. We cannot rely on raiding for wealth much longer. We cannot be strong as long as we are dependent on it."

Seemingly distracted, Hans pressed himself against his wife's backside, reaching his lips down to plant kisses along her neck and shoulder, pulling her gown open to reveal her slightly distended abdomen and breasts as he did so.

"I've had enough of politics for one day," Hans sighed, leaning to bury his nose in his wife's hair, inhaling her scent of cloves and mint. "I'm exhausted of it."

Elsa couldn't stop the annoyed smile that spread across her face, nor the warmth that spread from her face to her bosom at her husband's attentions. "You cannot be exhausted of politics when you're the chieftain's advisor and confidant."

"Tonight, I desire only to be the chieftain's husband."

"Only for tonight?"

"For tonight and every night that you'll have me," he whispered against the shell of her ear. Elsa shuddered and turned to face him, her lips brushing his before pulling back.

"You've already gotten me with child," Elsa chided, stroking her exposed stomach with the palm of her hand, revering the life that grew within her. "What more could you possibly want, Hans, Son of Dagr?"

Hans crouched down to place a tender kiss over their sleeping bairn, before rising steadily to kiss between her breasts, finally standing fully to kiss his wife on the mouth.

"I want _you_."

–

The bitter winter air nipped at Anna's exposed face as she made her way across the homestead. The day was not nearly over, and yet a night-like darkness had already fallen across the land; a common phenomenon in the North during the winter months, she had come to learn. Gripping her cloak tighter around herself to guard herself and her unborn babe from the elements, she arrived to the small hut at the edge of the homestead at long last, finding that her steps were slowing with each passing day; her stomach was swollen with her pregnancy, protruding from her small frame nearly as far as she could reach with her arm.

Throwing the curtain flap open behind herself, Anna entered the dimly-lit dwelling. The fire in the middle of the small room was nearly out, and so she set about rekindling it before doing anything else. The elderly man asleep on the cot in the corner coughed and stirred, grumbling something incoherent in Norse under his breath; the sickness was taking him quickly.

Once she had gotten the fire going again, Anna moved to kneel beside the cot, pulling out the bowl of bone broth and cup of water that she had carried with her.

"Grand Pabbie," she greeted, reaching her hand out to feel his forehead with the back of her hand; she pushed his damp hair away from his leathery face. "How are you feeling?"

"I am not long for this world, child," he rasped.

"Can you eat?" She held the bowl out to him, but he shunned it with a turn of his face on the pillow, as though it were some evil temptation. She set it aside, knowing that it would be fruitless to try to convince the old shaman otherwise.

Grand Pabbie had fallen ill just before Kristoff had left on his journey to the Orient, to resume the merchantry once practiced by his father. Anna's husband had been reluctant to go, considering the circumstances, but she had convinced him with the promise that he would return before their child was due to be born. It had been difficult for both of them to be apart for so long, but necessary if they were to accumulate the wealth they would need to survive without participating in Southern raids.

In the time that Kristoff had been gone, his grandfather's condition had only worsened; his ability for coherent speech had gradually left him, until he could scarcely speak a single lucid word. His once sharp mind continuously wavered between Midgard and Helheim; when he did speak, he spoke of demons and valkyries coming to take him, among other strange, unearthly things.

Kristoff would be returning from the trade routes any day; Anna only hoped and prayed that Grand Pabbie's connection to the mortal realm would not be severed before he got to see his grandson again.

"Give me your hand," the elderly man demanded suddenly.

Anna obliged, snaking her petite hand into his own wrinkled palm; he grasped it weakly and turned back to face her, his silver eyes clouded over and focused on nothing, but seeing something beyond the plane inhabited by the living.

"The South was never meant to be your home," he whispered, his gravelly voice low. "It may have been the land of your kinsmen, where you were born, and a place you once lived, but the North was always destined to become your true home. You have heard of _Urðr_?"

Anna nodded, swallowing thickly; he continued speaking, forcing the words out with the last of his strength.

"The Fate of every living creature is decided for us. We are powerless to stop it or change it; even the gods themselves cannot alter its path."

He patted her hand, as though to emphasize the severity of his following words: "You and Kristoff were destined to be together. Your fates and lives were forever intertwined, from the day that you met as children."

Anna furrowed her brows in contemplation. "Kristoff has mentioned that before, that we met as children, but I don't remember."

"You remember," Grand Pabbie insisted softly. "You do."

He gestured for Anna to learn forward, and she did, close enough for the shaman to touch her forehead; a vision was instantly conjured from behind her eyes, playing in her mind's eye like a long-forgotten memory. She could clearly see a young boy with a mop of unkempt, golden hair, looking down at her with curious brown eyes. He reached down, touching his hand to Anna's forehead, before brushing his knuckles across her cheek to push a lock of red-gold hair away from her face. He paused then, gently pinching the hair between his fingers, eyeing it curiously.

Anna hadn't realized that tears had sprung to her eyes until one slipped down her cheek; Grand Pabbie tenderly stroked it away with a shaky finger.

"Don't forget how far you've come."

Anna nodded again, unsure of what to say. Her head felt light with the memory he had shown her. He gave her a final smile, before settling in to sleep without another word; Anna stayed a few minutes longer with the silent man until she had gathered her wits about her enough to leave.

Outside the dwelling, the darkness seemed even blacker than when Anna had arrived. She moved at a hesitant pace away from the small house, looking back only once when a strange feeling of foreboding washed over her; she felt the realization that this would be the final time she'd see Grand Pabbie alive and it weighed heavy on her heart all the way back to her own home.

Feeling weary from the events of the afternoon, Anna opened the solid wooden door with difficulty, leaning her entire body against it to give her enough leverage to swing it open enough for her to slip inside.

She felt his presence before she saw him.

As soon as the door was secured behind her, Anna found herself face-to-face with the blond locs and warm brown eyes that she had been missing for so long.

"Kristoff." She breathed out his name like a prayer, feeling the fresh spring of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes once more. Suddenly her entire frame of vision was consumed by him, her mind swimming in emotions of love and longing as her heart thumped madly against her rib cage. He cupped her face in his large hands, still cold from the elements, and claimed her mouth with his own in a passionate, needy kiss; Anna kissed her husband back with just as much further, her tears falling unchecked in rivers from her eyes.

When he pulled back at last, Kristoff's face tightened with concern at seeing the wetness on her face. He believed them to be tears of joy at their reunion until he saw her choke back a sob.

"What is it, _Ǫndōttr Brók?_ Has something happened? Is something wrong?"

With an embarrassed laugh, Anna shook her head, wiping at her wet cheeks with her fingertips. "There is nothing to worry yourself about, Kristoff. Everything is as it should be."

"Then what could be the cause of this?" Kristoff swiped the pad of his thumb over his wife's trembling lip, removing the salt drop that sought shelter there. "I've been gone so many months. I thought you'd be happy. Did you forget me?"

In truth, Anna was beyond happy. Even the gods could not make her any happier than she was in that moment. Brushing the golden locs away from Kristoff's honeyed eyes to see them better, she smiled up at her husband, as dear to her as the babe that kicked and pushed restlessly within her womb, due into the world any day.

"No; I remember you."

–

 **It's done. I'm not incredibly happy with the ending, but my anxiety over this story has made it difficult to finish. I may come back to it at some point, but for now, thank you for reading and reviewing. I appreciate you all more than you know!**


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